


Heart of Fire

by Swolf581



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: For the night is dark and full of terrors, Fulfilling the prophecies, Multi, Non-Retcon, True continuation of the tv series for those who hated the ending, mother of dragons, tying up loose ends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-06-29 17:50:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 28,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19835434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swolf581/pseuds/Swolf581
Summary: The war of five kings has ended and a new king sits the throne, but all is not as it seems. This story explores many unanswered questions of the series: Who was the night king? How did Bran really ascend the throne? Where did Drogon take Daenerys's body? Who was the prince that was promised? Among many, many others.





	1. Bhago

It had been just a few months since Bhago had been left in this forsaken land of the dead and just as he had every day since arriving he contemplated the meaning of his own life. All around him the ruins of Old Valyria were a spectacular sight to behold even now, more than four centuries after the doom befell here. The sea had long since come in and swallowed much of the grand old city, but the buildings had been built strong in their time and despite the people who they had once served being long gone and being twisted from the heat of the doom the buildings still stood tall, keeping their silent vigil. The nights here certainly were long and full of terrors just as he had been taught for all of his life at the temple of R'hllor, but being afflicted with greyscale, and now left here to die, Bhago felt as though he had very little left to fear.

  
Bhago had served the lord of light as one of his messengers all his life, having been sold to the priesthood as an infant and raised within the church as so many of the unwanted children of Volantis had been before him. His life had never been an easy one. As a young child, he had worked as an acolyte, cleaning the temple, lighting the candles and receiving his education. He learned to read and write in several different languages from both Essos and Westeros with the idea that it would help him more effectively serve his lord. When he became a young man Bhago began to travel around the free cities of Essos, apprenticing under more experienced priests as they spread the word of light to their flock. His duty was to serve the priests in whatever it was they needed assistance with, this meant dealing with the sick or simply running messages to and fro across the city.

  
It was during his travels that Bhago had shown his penchant for the healing arts. He had been working in Pentos under the high priest of the city Rhiger when the son of a wealthy merchant was brought into the temple. There had been an accident in the harbor and the boy had been thrown from the pleasure boat he and his family had been on for the day. The boy had been pulled from the water and appeared to be already drowned, all of this, of course, happening on the day when the priest had been out proselytizing to the masses. Bhago had been forced to either take charge of the boys care, or let him die. The young boys' lips had been blue and his skin cold and clammy to the touch, but Bhango started as he had taught from the time he was small, he began to pray. Fires were lit and sacrifices were made, and Bhago had performed the healing arts. In the end, by the will of R’hllor, the boy had lived. The grateful merchant and his family provided a hefty tithe to the temple and a debt of gratitude to Bhago for saving his son. After this incident, Bhago had made a name for himself as a healer and had been directed by the high priests of Volantis to study medicine and had for a time been sent to study with the Maesters of Old Town in Westeros.

  
The westerners had their strange ways and Bhago had initially struggled to find a place among them. For one, Bhago was technically not a free man and had the mark of a slave upon his face, but scholars in one country are no different from those in another and eventually they had found common ground. While Bhago studied the healing arts of the westerners, the westerners had taken the opportunity to study him. They asked him about his social status as a slave in Volantis, they asked him detailed questions about his home, his culture, his religion, and even the tattoo on his face, all the while taking down his answers to be filed away in some book in the tower of the maesters, some file to be used by some future maester to learn more about him and his people. There were those that sneered at his belief in the Lord of Light, but there were many who also listened, and while it did not appear as though Bhago had converted any of the other maesters or maesters in training during his time, he did believe he had helped foster a new respect for his people and their ways. Bhago spent several years at the Citadel in Old Town, working with the sick, and while it never felt like home he had made the most of his experience.

  
Upon completing his training with the Westerners he had returned to Essos to work as a full-time healer for the Lord of Light, working predominantly with those who had been afflicted by greyscale. Greyscale was so common in Essos, almost every day new cases were brought to him, though unfortunately due to the stigma associated with the disease many were brought in too late out of their family members shame. Countless times Bhago had been the one to condemn a person to quarantine in Old Valyria, knowing only that he was sending those people away to die somewhere where they would not spread their sickness to others. Never had he actually stopped to think about what it actually meant for those who were thrown into exile.

  
Now he knew. Less than a year ago he had found something that had almost stopped his heart. A tiny portion of his hand had begun to grow hard and grey. At first, he had thought it impossible. He had worked with greyscale victims for years with no consequences. He was always careful and clean when he worked with his patients. On top of his practices, he had gone through most of his life genuinely believing that he had been special, that he had been chosen by R'hllor to do something great. Even from his childhood Bhago would look into the flames and see the figure of a three-headed dragon rising from the embers. He never knew precisely what to make of this, but he did know that R'hllor had a plan. In recent years he had even been certain that this sight was even more significant because dragons had been brought back into the world by the last Targaryen, whose sigil had been that of the three-headed dragon, so he felt it just had to mean something. But where was that plan now?

  
Despite Bhago’s best efforts the greyscale spread unrelentingly, slowly but surely consuming the flesh of his arm and continuing up to his torso than reaching as if to strangle him about the neck. The other priests had done what they could, but nothing could stop the infection from ravaging his body. Due to his status, he had been given a private cell within the walls of the temple of Volantis in which to continue his research, but in the end, he had to suffer the same fate as so many before him with the disease, exile to Old Valyria. He had failed.

  
The trip here had been a solemn one, he did not know the captain of the ship that had sailed to the smoking sea but the captain would have known who he was. Even on the ship, Bhago had continued his studies, but to no avail. When they came to where he was to disembark with a heavy heart he had left the ship with only supplies with which to live: food, clothing, flint, and others. What he left behind was his books of notes that contained years of research, something that in many ways he felt had been a part of him, his life's work. He had had a mind to take them with him but in the end it seemed that the only way for him to leave a legacy was to leave behind all that he had learned in the hope that another might come along after him and stand on his shoulders to become something great. Maybe that was the purpose R'hllor had in mind.  
And thus Bhago had lived here since, slowly using up his supplies, sitting by the shore of the smoking seas, him and the twisted and melted architecture of Valyria, now long abandoned. He had initially worried about the violence and aggression of the other stonemen, as he knew that as the disease progressed it began to affect their minds, making them nothing more than wild animals, but those fears were unfounded. The stonemen left alone their own, and that's what he was now, nothing more than one of them. After 60 years of life, decades of which were spent learning, healing others and most importantly showing undying devotion to his god, this was all that he had left, the husk of a man that was now left to live out his days with those who he had previously condemned here to die before him.

  
As his supplies ran lower and lower he began to contemplate the end of his life. He probably could scavenge for food here, he had seen fish and frogs in the water, and various berries and plants that had looked edible. He even knew that a person could survive here, the others all had. But really, what was the point of life when all else had been stripped away? He had been a healer, had used his mind and skills to improve the lives of his fellow man, that had been who he was. Now he knew that as this damnable disease progressed he would lose that, he would lose himself, so why go on. Why bother? He stared into the small fire he had created for himself this night, he stared at it with hopelessness. Ever since he was first afflicted he had failed to see any visions in the flames. It had been as if R'hllor had forsaken him. Perhaps he should just end it now, walk into the sea and never walk back out, let the currents carry him away. Or maybe he could immolate himself, stand upon the fire and allow his clothes to catch and the flames to lick up his legs, fire was the purest death after all.

  
As he thought his dark thoughts something in the flames caught his eye, movement that he had not seen for almost a year now. A three-headed dragon rising from the ashes. Though this had been a common sight for him in his youth the sight almost frightened him, was R'hllor speaking to him? And if so why now? Even as the flames continued to crackle something else came into view from over the horizon in the west. It was dark but even in the light of the moon, he could see something flying at great speed towards him, a great winged shadow.


	2. Bran

  
The entity known as Brandon of the house Stark awoke from his slumber with a start. Looking around the room it took a moment for him to orient himself; this was the kind of thing happened on occasion for a being that had existed for several thousand years. The inside of one castle was apt to look similar to the inside of any other. It didn’t help that Bran had seen this very room in his visions for millennia, and had always expected to end up here in the end.

  
After getting himself mentally situated in the present Bran reflected on the events that had brought him to the very moment that he was now in, and why this moment in particular, more than anything else in his very long life, frightened him. This was because this was the moment at which he no longer knew the future, this was, as far as his abilities and personal history could attest, the end of time, the end of an era. He had not been the boy Brandon Stark for some time now, not since the sister of Bran, Arya Stark had killed his physical body during the Great War that took place at the castle of Winterfell. That had all gone precisely to his plan, he had needed to shed his previous body, for his soul to be transferred into this new one that he now inhabited. Bran smiled to himself at the thought of this, his new form was in all actuality the form in which he had started.

  
He had started out life as Brandon Stark, born as the most powerful warg and greenseer to have ever existed, and importantly born into a prominent family in which he could gain status and power. This boy, even through his travels through Westeros and North of the wall on a sled drawn by a half-giant, did not know the extent of his powers, he did not realize his true potential. The true ordeal of his life had begun when his soul, the soul of Brandon Stark had been cast out of his body at the battle of Winterfell, forcibly flung from his present time and space, and had been sent back over 8,000 years from where he had been born. All this only to inhabit the body of the man being used as a sacrifice by the children of the forest to become the first white walker.  
As the dragon glass had been driven into his chest Bran had felt more pain and been in more agony than even 100 generations of men could have felt in that moment. He had felt as though cold and darkness itself had been pressed into his heart, and at the moment that his heart had stopped beating, he had lost his humanity. At the time, without an understanding of what had happened to him, Bran had reacted with rage and violence and had sought vengeance against those, whom he had felt responsible for taking away his life. He had believed it had been the children of the forest to blame for his displacement, those who had helped him during his life as Bran the boy warg and greenseer. Those who had helped him ascend to become the three-eyed raven, the seer of the future, the vessel of knowledge. Now it was the children of the forest who had somehow betrayed him and the realms of men at the moment of victory against what was their creation, the night king.

  
It was during his initial rage that he found that he could extend his Warg abilities to inhabit the bodies of the dead and make them walk, he could raise armies to do his will, and there was nothing that the children of the forest could do to stop him. Even if they managed to stop his soldiers, he could simply raise more from the dead who had been left to litter the battlefield. He went on to discover that he could raise the bodies of other creatures as well, he raised horses, bears and more horrifyingly giant spiders that had been dead from the continent for thousands of years. The armies of the children of the forest were so devastated that they turned to mankind for help, the enemy who had been the reason for his creation in the first place. But man or child of the forest it did not matter, Bran and his armies continued to march on, making the army of the dead larger with every fresh victory.

  
As Bran swept through Westeros the cold came with him, and he began to recognize the events of the long night that his wet nurse old Nan had told him about so many years before as he lay as a little crippled boy in his bed in Winterfell. More than once he had wondered if the stories he had heard were truly a result of the long night, or if his actions had been affected by the stories he had heard. Eventually, the children and the humans were able to bring too much to bear, and they had begun to become smarter about exploiting his weakness. Neither he nor his armies could resist the touch of the material that had brought this version of himself into existence and the living began to use weapons made of dragonglass. Additionally, the living realized that using fire to burn the bodies of the dead was the only way to ensure that Bran could no longer resurrect them. His armies dwindled as more were killed by dragon glass, and he could no longer replenish the numbers as the living burned all of their dead.

  
In the end, he and his armies of the dead were defeated, ironically one of those leading to his defeat being both his ancestor and namesake, Bran the Builder and his blasted wall with which the children of the forest had infused with magic that would prevent his crossing back into the lands of the living. His attempt to take over Westeros had failed, but in the end he had not been killed. Instead, he merely retreated. He traveled up the lands of endless winter, finding that the cold no longer affected his physical body, In fact, rather than feeling the cold as he did in life he instead reveled in it, he had, in the end, become a creature of the cold, of the night, and of the dark.

  
In his solitude, Bran began to hear a voice, somehow both his own and of some great other whispering to him from the dark. This voice provided him with guidance and over the course of the next eight millennia Bran learned what more he could do with his abilities, Bran became a God. He found that not only could he turn the armies of the dead to his will, he could also convert living, breathing creatures to his will, even other humans. These creatures became to him his loyal servants and worshipped him as he felt he deserved. He learned he had control over the forces of dark and cold, and that he could manipulate these elements to his will, bringing the cold and dark with him wherever he went, even more than he had done during the long night.  
It was during his dark solitude that Bran had begun to learn the truth, not only that he was the night king of his future, but that he was so much more. He was not a failed experiment by the children of the forest, he was the lord of darkness, he was the Great Other, he was the adversary to all that was light, and living in the world. It was now that he realized he had been the one to cast his soul out of his body so long ago. This had only been so that he could replace his young soul with his older, wiser soul into his original body. All to get to where he was right now, in a position to take over Westeros and eventually the rest of the world with cold and darkness. To replace the light and living with the embodiment of himself.

  
While it was true that Bran was back in his true body it still felt unfamiliar, and worst of all, weak. The cold that he had become so accustomed to pained him now, and like the other humans he had been forced to keep a fire in his room for warmth. This form also could not walk; he had only vaguely remembered how as a child of ten he had lost the ability to walk after being pushed from a high window. This event in many ways was what had started the war of the five kings in Westeros, a war that had happened so recently for the people of today, but millennia ago for him. The war was, in the grand scheme of the world, but a paltry event, simply a means to an end. He knew that his current weaknesses were a temporary state and that as time went on this body would be molded into a superior form, just as his last one had been. The process would take some time, but he had waited over 8,000 years to get here, he could wait through this minor inconvenience.

  
Bran's influence over events in the past decade had been put into motion centuries before, as he spent much of his time in solitude in the lands of endless winter using his ability to see past and present along with his knowledge from his previous life in the future to set events into motion. Bran had the ability to be heard by those he observed throughout time as he had discovered long ago when observing his father in a vision, and over time had perfected his ability to possess the minds of the living. Eventually, he found that he was able to get inside of a person or animals mind without taking over entirely, but instead use a lighter touch, to be a voice in their head. While it was true that he could not exert his will directly over people without having their minds break, a lesson he had learned with Hodor as a boy, he had learned over the years to become a convincing influence. The trick to control was to make the other believe that he was, in fact, their own internal voice speaking. People continued to have free will, but he was a master of manipulation after 8,000 years of practice

  
First, he focused on extinguishing the Dragons, as Dragons were the embodiment of fire and were the one true danger to him and his power. Bran had seen the rise and fall of the empire of Valeria, and been the voice that had whispered in the ears of their sorcerers, convincing them to go a spell too far, causing the chain reaction in the volcanic system surrounding the city that led to the Doom. He had tried to wipe every Dragonlord from the earth but, Daenys the Dreamer and her family the Targaryens eluded him when they fled for Dragonstone, taking their dragons with them.  
Bran watched when Aegon the Conqueror had taken over Westeros from the back of Balerion the dread, and he had guided the hand of the marksman of the scorpion bolt that had taken the life of both the dragon Maraxes and Aegon's beloved queen. But just as the histories he already knew from his boyhood, this event did not stop the conqueror. Even Maegor the cruel, with Bran whispering dark thoughts into his mind, was not able to stop the Targaryen dynasty from continuing. In the end, one of his greatest strokes of luck, was convincing the Targaryens, generation by generation, to keep their dragons in the dragon pit of Kings Landing, and to suffocate the life out of them with captivity. This lead to what would be a temporary end to the dragons and the threat of what they represented. Eventually, he used the already hotheaded and vengeful young knight Robert Baratheon to destroy the Targaryen dynasty.

  
But again, history repeated itself, and Daenerys escaped Robert’s ire. She grew up, married the Dothraki Khal, rose to power, and became the mother of dragons just as she had done during his time as a young boy. Bran did not let this stop him, instead, he decided to use his knowledge of events to use Daenerys’s weaknesses against her. He orchestrated the deaths of her closest allies and the deaths of her children, one of which he took for himself in his visage as the Night King. He knew that with her family history of mental instability this would push her over the edge of madness and with that there would be a high likelihood that she would be assassinated by his cousin and her nephew Jon Snow, or his sister Arya Stark. Bran helped the process further by posing as the voice in her mind during the battle in Kings Landing, that told her that she was doing the right thing and that she should become the ruler of the world to achieve peace. This was a lie, but believable enough for someone as grief stricken as Daenerys. All of this worked and Daenerys had eventually been killed as planned. But what kept him up now, and what had likely woken him from his fitful rest this night was that her final dragon had survived and that the body of the last Targaryen had disappeared, and had now been gone for weeks.

  
He was no longer in the future that he had already lived, instead this was all new to him. He did not know where Daenerys’s body had gone, had her dragon eaten it and left? Had it been taken away by a person that had come across it in the castle? He knew that she was dead, his cousin Jon had told him the story again and again, but with the disturbing detail that the dragon had found the body, melted the iron throne, then taken the body of his mother and flown off. If that really was the sequence of events where had he taken her? As Bran knew all too well death did not have to mean the end, death could simply mean a new beginning, with a new existence just as it had for him. And the possibility of Daenerys not being dead is what frightened him, she was the mother of dragons and the messenger of light in the world.


	3. Daenerys

  
Daenerys could feel herself floating through space, weightless, no part of her body touching anything around it, it was like swimming in a cool, deep, dark pool, but with a lightness to it that she could somehow not describe. All around her she felt as though her eyes were both overwhelmed by what she saw, and yet she could not tell if she saw anything at all, both seeing the spectrum of all the colors and an absence of colors all at once. She did not feel fear in this place. When she thought about where she was all she could think was that Jon Snow had sent her here, handsome Jon Snow, loyal Jon Snow, but why did he send her here? Had he killed her? Was this death? She didn’t know what death had felt like, having never experienced it before, but this somehow didn’t seem right.

  
She felt as though she could sense the wind in her hair as if she were on the back of her dragon, but as she could clearly see by looking around Drogon was nowhere to be found. She found herself worrying for him, but she knew that this was unwarranted, Drogon was the most resilient creature she had ever known, he was going to be fine. Daenerys’s flight continued for some time, for how long she could not tell, there was no light, no darkness, only being, but she found that she did not mind. After some time she began to see a distinct glowing in the distance, and she willed herself towards it. No matter what it was, she figured that something was better than nothingness. As she got closer she was able to see that what she had perceived as glowing had in fact been an island, no, a continent, of land covered by pale grass, ghost grass she realized as her Dothraki people had called it. As she drew closer the desire to get to the land of the ghost grass became ever more powerful.

  
Finally, Daenerys’s feet touched down on the soft land, and though she was barefoot, she found that she could walk comfortably over the ground as if it were blanketed with thick carpet. She began to walk. There were no buildings, or landmarks or animals anywhere to be seen, but there was the moon, and she headed directly towards it, somehow knowing that was the direction she needed to go. She walked again for an indeterminable amount of time, but she did not mind. It was as if time no longer had any meaning to her as if she were now outside of it. Eventually, she saw something ahead; from afar it looked like the walls of a city. As she got closer she began to recognize the walls as those of the city of Qarth, the city that had taken in her and her Khalisar so long ago after the death of her husband.  
At the gates, Daenerys saw a figure, a figure that she thought she would never see again, that of the knight and her closest advisor Jorah Morment. “Jorah!!” she called, feeling overwhelmed with a mixture of grief and happiness. “I never thought that I would see you again!”

  
“Not in life, my Queen” He answered, as he knelt at her feet, his expression that of one made of stone.

  
This response confused Daenerys, she wasn’t dead, she knew that “Rise Sir Jorah Morment so that your Queen may look upon your face.” At this Jorah slowly stood, all the while averting his eyes from Daenerys. When he had stood tall, despite his dour expression Daenerys could no longer help herself and reached out and embraced the knight, she was so happy to see him again. After a few moments Daenerys withdrew “Where are we Jorah, what do you mean by not in life?”

  
Jorah stood silent for a moment, looking into Daenerys’s face as he had so many times before, she knew the look, he was thinking of the right words to say. “This is not life my Queen, this is your interpretation of the afterlife.”

  
This confused Daenerys further. “My interpretation? How can that be, isn’t the afterlife just the afterlife? Also, am I dead? I don’t believe you...”

  
Jorah took a deep breath as he considered his words carefully. “The afterlife is what those who die believe it to be, all throughout the world, different religions and different cultures have different ideas of what happens to the soul when one dies. None of them are wrong. The afterlife is an endless realm that shapes itself to fit the reality that the person experiencing it wishes to perceive. As for the question of your death Kalessi, that is a more difficult question to answer. You are not dead, but nor are you alive.”

  
“One cannot be both dead and alive Jorah, even children know this, do not think me a child and try to soften the blow of my own death,” Daenerys spoke, with more anger behind the words than she had intended.

  
Jorah looked away from her, looking instead towards the gates of Qarth. “Kalessi, I am not the one to ask, I was merely sent to guide you. Please, follow me and all will be explained.” As he finished speaking he began to walk and the gates swung slowly open as if in response to his movement.

  
Daenerys stood for a moment, not knowing how to interpret what her dear Jorah had said, but quickly followed him through the gates; it seemed as though if she wanted answers she needed to speak with someone else.  
Once through the gates, Daenerys had to briefly stop in awe of what she saw. The city within was not Qarth as she had expected, but instead was a melting pot of all the cities and all the peoples whom she had ever seen. There were Dothraki yurts alongside buildings she recognized from Mereen, Yunkai, Pentos, and King’s Landing. In the distance, she could see the pyramid of Mereen, with the bronze harpy still perched on its point. In a different part of the city, she could see the colosseum of Yunkai with its fighting pits, and the building that housed the Dosh Khaleen in Voes Dothrak, but looking larger than any of them was the castle of the Red Keep in King’s Landing, looking as it did, untouched, before she had taken the city. Daenerys stood rooted to the spot, unable to move, taking this incredible place in, when Jorah spoke. “This way Khalessi, there is someone who would like to speak with you.”

  
Daenerys did not know what to make of this place as she and Jorah made their way through the streets; at first the people she saw were unfamiliar, but as she walked she started recognizing people from her past. The people she passed did not react to her, but simply stared as she went by. She didn’t know if they were ghosts, or demons, or simply figments of her imagination. Even as they walked together Daenerys began to question if Jorah, who had been walking by her side and slightly in front was even real. Now as she looked at him closely the details didn’t seem quite right. He didn’t walk the same way she remembered the knight walking, and he did not exude the same aura, but the harder she tried to remember the more the details seemed to slip away.

  
She had been ignoring the passing crowds of people, but a gleam of silver gold hair caught her eye, and the first of the apparitions to make her stop and truly take notice was that of her brother Viserys. He stood as she had known him, tall and proud, no, not proud, haughty. Thinking back she wondered what it was that Viserys had been so proud of, he had been a spoiled child and an evil man, one who only sought power, though he had none himself. She had not been sad when he had been killed by her husband, in a way she had been relieved, and had known that it would be better this way. Even now as she looked upon his face she did not regret these feelings. Daenerys had lost many that she had loved, but Viserys had not been one of them.

  
As she began to walk again, she examined the faces of those she passed by more closely. As she continued to come across the faces of those she had lost, it became harder and harder for her to continue on. When she and Jorah were almost at the keep she came across two people from her past who made her stop once again, grief flowing through her: Missande and Drogo. “My sun and stars!” she called, running over to him. But Drogo did not react, and when she reached out to touch his arm her fingers slipped right through his visage. “Drogo, it’s me, moon of your life, please, speak to me!” she begged. When he continued to not react she turned to Missande. “My dearest friend, I am so sorry! It’s my fault you died at the hands of that woman, but I did as you asked, I burned the city.” Even as she said the words to her friend, she was struck by what she said: she had burned the city.

  
She had burned the people.

  
She had been precisely that which she had spent her life trying to fight.

  
With this thought, she began to weep.  
“My Queen we cannot stop here, there are things you need to do,” Jorah said, gently touching her arm, lightly tugging her in the direction they had been walking.

  
“What is the point? I have become that which I despise! There was no purpose to my life, and there is no purpose to my death. I would rather spend eternity in non-existence than be here,” Daenerys sobbed, dropping to her knees.“I could not protect the people I loved and now I am nothing more than a monster.”

  
“Sometimes one needs to rise from the ashes to become something better than they were before,” Jorah said softly. He tugged at Daenerys’s arm, not gently, but he did not hurt her. Daenerys looked up at him tearfully.

  
“Are they here because of me? The people I loved, are they left like this because of what I have done?” Daenerys asked, attempting to staunch the flow of tears.

  
“They are not here Khaleesi, they have moved on to eternity, you only perceive them as here, again, the shape of the afterlife is only as you see it to be...and you live in your guilt and grief.” Jorah said, continuing to walk ahead of her.

  
“Then, is it really you Jorah?” Daenerys asked, not quite sure if she really wanted to know the answer.

  
The knight ahead of her paused for a moment, and without turning around he spoke. “No.” It said the word with an absence of emotion. Daenerys moved instinctively away from the thing she had been following.  
“Then why should I follow you anywhere? How do I know that this is not a trick?” she said, her words sounding defiant. The apparition that wore the face of Jorah turned around, a fire blazing in its eyes.  
“This is the form of the messenger you wished to see. I am simply here to take you to my Lord. If I were in my true form I would be incomprehensible to your mind.” The thing said, in a voice that no longer sounded like the patient and familiar voice of the knight. “Now, if you will follow me, my Queen, my Lord grows impatient.”


	4. Jon

#  **4**

The words of the man that raised him always seemed to ring through Jon Snow's mind, "Winter is coming", as he and his companions traversed through the north. The real north, the one on the other side of the wall. It had been about a month since he had left the wall and forsaken the seven, now six, kingdoms, and every day he had questioned his decision. It was not that he regretted being with these people; the freefolk were good, honest people, and as a fighter and a leader he had been a welcome addition to their ranks. But he had always attempted to uphold the honorable reputation of Ned Stark, the man he had called father for so many years, and he felt like he had failed. He had killed the woman that he had sworn fealty to and called queen, he had taken the black and then shirked his vows, twice. What kind of man was he? 

Pushing these thoughts aside Jon analyzed his surroundings, he and the others had been scouting the territories of the north, assessing the damage that had been done by the army of the dead and searching for survivors. Thus far they had found very little. So many of the freefolk had perished as the army of the dead had marched South, and all of the homes and villages that had been in the army's path had been destroyed. What had been especially eerie was that there were never any bodies amongst the wreckage. Jon liked to tell himself that this was because the people had fled before the dead had arrived, but he knew from experience that this was not the case. 

The party had reached the base of a hill when a voice spoke loud and decisively “Let’s go ahead and stop here for the night, this spot has some shelter to it. Get a fire going first, I’m freezing my manhood off and I wouldn’t want to disappoint any of your mothers.” Jon turned to face the speaker, “Maybe I’ll use you to keep me warm tonight pretty boy,” grinned Tormund Giantsbane. 

“Your mother said the same to me just a few days ago; I see you two have a lot in common” Jon quipped back. Tormund was one of the reasons why Jon had decided to join the free folk permanently. He too was a warrior and an honest man; not the most refined, but honest, and Jon couldn’t help but like him. 

Tormund's smile made his fire-red hair practically glow as he said: “You southern boys are all more trouble than your worth. Go make a fire so your poor southern arse doesn’t freeze off. Then how would you get the girls?”

Jon smiled back and went to work setting up camp for the night. The freefolk were experts at traversing the north and knew how to pack light and get the resources they needed from their environment. Jon had learned some of these survival skills from the freefolk and used his knowledge to begin looking for a place to set his bearskin bedroll. He knew to look for a place that was slightly below the level of the ground so that the wind would pass over him in the night rather than hit him straight on. He knew that sleeping on the rock would be both uncomfortable and cold, and he knew that soft ground might get wet, and that could mean freezing to death in the night. 

After choosing the perfect spot Jon went with a few of the other men to go and find firewood. Fire seemed like such a luxury these days. Before the great war and defeat of the army of the dead, the freefolk had had to travel without making fires because they would give away their position to the white walkers. Now that the white walkers were gone they were free to make as big of fires as they pleased to keep them warm at night and to cook their food. The only problem now was that there was rarely enough wood that was dry enough to make more than a pitiful flame. 

As he searched Jon came across what looked to be a tall, narrow opening to a cave in the side of a cliff. The area around the opening seemed innocuous enough with no signs of a large predator using it as a den; no bones around the mouth and no footprints leading in or out. After a cursory glimpse inside the opening using a torch, he decided to take a closer look. It was a somewhat tight squeeze to get inside with all of his furs on, but once past the opening, the cave opened up significantly. The space was not cavernous so to speak but was large enough to comfortably hold the entire group he was traveling with. The cave floor was riddled with old leaves that crackled under his feet, perfect kindling. As he turned to leave, an idea struck and he went straight to Tormund. 

“There’s a cave we can use for shelter just over that rise,” Jon told Tormund as he ran up, slightly out of breath. Tormund raised an eyebrow.

“What was in this cave that is so convenient for our use? Not common to find free shelter here in the north” Tormund responded, skeptical. 

“Nothing so far as I could tell, no predators, no other people, just a cave, should be big enough for all of us to sleep warm tonight,” Jon said, almost pleading; a nice warm cave would be an improvement to sleeping out in the open again. 

Tormund sighed and dropped his shoulders, “Fine, let’s take a look at this cave you found boy. Make sure nothing in it will kill us, or that nothing is going to come back and give us a nasty surprise later tonight.” 

By the light of two torches, Jon was able to see the paintings on the wall. “This must have been used by the first men,” Tormund commented, walking closer to the far wall to take a closer look. “It should make you wonder what kinds of things were done here. Could have been good, could have been something else, might not be the best luck to stay here.”

Jon walked over to join the fire-haired man in looking at the back wall. “I didn’t see you as being the superstitious type Tormund. What, are you scared of ghosts now?” Jon joked, attempting to get a rise out of the other man. 

Tormund did not take the bait but instead looked at Jon with an expressionless face “You and I both saw the armies of the dead boy. Ghosts are real.” With that silence fell between the two men for a few tense seconds. “You have to admit that it is odd that space as nice as this doesn’t have anything already living in it” 

Jon thought for a moment, “We can sleep here, just set up shifts to keep watch. Just in case” he said hopefully. 

Tormunds face turned back to a smile, “What the hell, anything to get out of this cold for a night. You get middle shift pretty boy. Just make sure nothing eats us or I’ll kill you.” 

“You can’t kill me if you’ve already been eaten.” Jon laughed. 

“Watch me,” replied Tormund.

\-----------------------

Jon had slept very little in the hours before his shift; something was nagging at the back of his mind and he could not for the life of him figure out what it could be. He almost felt as if he were being watched, which seemed a childish way to feel when he knew full well that he was being watched, by Jorgen who had been set to the first watch. But that was not what this felt like. It wasn’t Jorgen, who he could now hear snoring softly while sitting up against the wall. It didn’t even feel as though he were in any sort of immediate danger, just that something was watching his every move. 

Finally, the hour came and Jon got up to take his shift for the middle watch. He didn’t bother waking Jorgen. There was no point; he may as well let the man continue to sleep. Jon would give him hell tomorrow. Jon's movement also woke his dire wolf Ghost who came silently padding over to where his master sat, laying down at Jons' feet only to fall asleep almost immediately. Jon felt a little better seeing this. If Ghost didn’t feel threatened in this place then neither should he. 

To pass the time he decided to take a closer look at the murals on the back wall of the cave that he had looked at briefly earlier with Tormund. The style of the art was very similar to those he had seen under the castle at Dragonstone, which felt like an eternity ago. There was no doubt that both men and children of the forest had once shared this cave. The paintings depicted the night king, his armies, and other terrifying sights. None of this was new to Jon until he came to the far end of the wall. The painting here he did not recognize, it appeared to depict another battle, but not between the armies of the living and the dead. Instead, there were only two combatants, a three-headed dragon, and a huge and grotesque, three-eyed black bird. 


	5. Bhago

Bhago could not believe what he saw coming towards him in the night; the winged shadow was nothing short of a dragon the size and might of Balerion the Dread, the famed Targaryen dragon of old. Was this the first true sign of madness due to the progression of his disease? Was he simply imagining a massive dragon flying toward him in the night? He had never seen a dragon in the flesh. They had all died from the world over 100 years ago, decades before his birth, and even those had lived in Westeros. It was true that he was currently in the home domain of the dragons, here in Old Valyria, nestled amongst the slumbering volcanoes. Though few had dared to venture here since the time of the doom, enough had come and gone to know that the dragons of Valyria had all died in the catastrophe called the Doom.

Maybe, he thought, the legends of the Dothraki are true, and dragons really did come from the moon. Maybe what he was seeing was the egg of the moon hatching open once more to bring forth dragons back into the world. Bhago considered the consequences of that happening. Dragons, as even the youngest and most inexperienced of his order knew, were the source of magic in the world, and ever since their disappearance magic, true magic, had all but disappeared with them. If the dragons came back, he wondered, would magic come back as well? Did it work that easily? With the return of magic the red priesthood would become once more a powerful force in the world, able to spread the word of R’hllor through more than just proselytizing, but through the workings of actual miracles as well. With the use of the magical arts, many of the diseases that afflicted people today would be eliminated, possibly including greyscale.

As Bhago considered the possibilities the shadow grew closer until he could make out more than just the general size and shape of the creature, but also the details. This dragon was mostly jet black, with his back fins and the inside of his wings accented a red the color of blood, it truly appears to be the reincarnation of the great dragon Balerion the Dread. As the Dread approached Bhago began to feel frightened. While it was true that dragons were the embodiment of fire, and the ultimate symbol of the lord of light, he also knew that the stories told of them being extraordinarily dangerous to common men, able to eat a human in one mouthful. Only those who had been born with the blood of the dragon running through their veins, like the dragon lords of Old Valeriya, could control these magnificent beasts. The stories even told that those of the blood of the dragon could not be harmed by fire, whether natural or dragon-made. It was due to this ability that the Valeryians were able to not just tame these beasts, but ride them as well. Bhago had always known these stories to be true, but hearing them, and then seeing one of these creatures in person were completely different experiences.

The great shape was upon him, the dragons wingspan so wide that he almost entirely blocked out the light of the full moon. Bhago was surprised to find that despite being such an immense creature, it landed softly, hardly making a sound, a scary thing for such a large predator to be able to do, he thought to himself. It was then that he noticed that the dragon had something gently grasped in one of its claws. While it looked like a small object compared to the size of the dragon, from a closer distance it was obviously quite large, about the size of a person. With this size comparison, it was clear that if this dragon wanted to it could easily carry away one of the elephants from the south of Essos.

The dragon opened its claw and delicately placed the object it had been carrying on the ground in front of it. Bhago was shocked to see that it was a human, a woman by the looks of it, one with silver-blonde hair. He stood shocked and in fear, believing the dragon had likely killed the woman and merely brought her here to eat in peace, happening across another easy kill, but then the dragon did not move. As he watched, rooted to the spot he saw that rather than attempting to eat the woman or to kill him it simply looked at him. And as his shock began to wane, his scientific curiosity began to grow. He noticed that the look the dragon was giving him almost appeared to be pleading. Eventually, he noticed a minute, but obvious movement of the beasts head that appeared to look between him and the woman on the ground in front of him.

Finally, Bhago’s curiosity and scholarly nature began to get the better of him. "After all," he thought, "if I get killed by a dragon, fire is the purest death." He began to slowly walk forward towards the woman and the dragon standing patiently behind her. The dragon at no point made any indication that it was going to attack; it just stared at him and waited. As Bhago made his final approach the dragon moved, but not towards him. Spreading its wings, it heaved its massive body upwards into the sky. The downdraft created by the wings of the beast was strong enough to knock him from his feet, weakened as he was from the disease. Bhago scrambled to find his feet again, but by the time he looked up the dragon was gone, off somewhere into the night sky.

He rushed over to the woman now lying alone on the ground in front of him but stopped just short of reaching her, suddenly remembering the infectiousness of his disease. He marveled at her beauty. She was a petite woman, but not a child, and she was dressed in the fine clothes of royalty, the style of which was not of Essos. This alone would have been enough to make her impressive, but her most defining feature was the one that he had noticed the moment he had set eyes upon her: her silver-gold hair. This woman was of the blood of Old Valyria, she was a dragon lord!

It was no mystery to Bhago who this woman was, there was only one person in the world whom he knew fit this description. She was Daenerys Stormborn of the house Targaryen, a member of the deposed ruling family of Westeros. He had heard of her travels and achievements; everyone in Essos had once she became the mother of dragons. There had always been those who were skeptical of whether the stories about her had been true, for they had always seemed too fantastical to be based in reality. Certainly, there was no denying that she was a conqueror; she had taken the cities of Yunkai and Mereen, amassed an army of both Dothraki screamers and Unsullied soldiers, and eventually crossed the narrow sea to reclaim her families throne. It had been the dragons and her control of them that had seemed like a fairy tale that the old would tell children to instill a sense of wonder. Now Bhago had seen it for himself, dragons were real once more and no longer figments of imagination. Daenerys Stormborn had been brought here by the largest and most ferocious creature he had ever seen, and, he realized, she had been brought to him.

He checked to see if she was breathing or if he could hear a heartbeat but found none. The mother of dragons was dead. Bhago sat on the ground beside her in despair; his god had forsaken him. For just a moment he had believed that his great purpose had just arrived, delivered to him by the very embodiment of his lord, and instead here she was, dead. As he stared into the middle distance lost for what to do he saw a jet of flame from the top of one of the higher buildings. The dragon he had seen had breathed fire from the darkness and had set alight one of the damp trees that inhabited the area. Bhago watched it burn, hotter than any flame that he had ever seen, and as he watched the flame he saw the vision again. The three-headed dragon rising out of the ashes.

It was then that it came to him. The purpose that his god had planned for him, the reason he had studied the healing arts, the reason why he had been plagued with greyscale and sent here, the reason for his visions all these years. His purpose was to help her. It was true that she was dead, he had never worked to bring the dead back to life; it was a dangerous and taxing process that only the most devout and powerful of priests could accomplish. But it was possible. Bhago set to work immediately. He gently carried her body over to where he had been staying, the inside of a ruin that was still intact enough to keep the elements and the other stonemen away. He set her down on his bedroll and began to build a new fire here inside his shelter. He got out the last of his candles that he had been rationing since he had arrived, arranged them into the sacred shapes and had lit them all. It was then that he began chanting. He said the words that he had learned from his masters when he was nothing more than an acolyte, and he put his hands upon the woman so that the power that he drew from R’hllor could be channeled through her. He continued like this through the night.

By morning Bhago was exhausted and on the verge of collapse. His whole body screamed in agony as if every fiber of his being had been sapped of all its strength. Bhago knelt to the floor, unable to continue. He was too weak. "I have failed in my purpose," he thought, "I cannot help even one more person before I die, I really am nothing." As he looked up at his failure through bleary tear-filled eyes he noticed something. The woman on his bedroll was breathing. There was also more color to her cheeks. She may not have been moving, but she was alive. He had done it. Bhago collapsed fully to the ground weeping in happiness, “Thank you, Lord! Thank you!” he shouted into the air. Laying on the floor of the ruined building Bhago decided that his purpose was still not fulfilled, he was here to serve the Targaryen woman; he needed to ensure that one day she would wake up. And with that thought, his exhaustion overwhelmed him and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	6. Daenerys

Daenerys had never seen the Red Keep before the day she had ridden into King's Landing on the back of Drogon and destroyed it, but here she was now, following an entity that looked like the late knight Jorah Moment, through a castle she had never actually been in until it was quite literally crumbling to the ground. Now that she was here she found that the castle had only been of middling extravagance if this truly were what the inside had looked like, and she had no reason to doubt that it was. Many of the palaces of the free cities in Essos had been more lavish, but she supposed this was likely a matter of practicality of the Westerosi. 

Jorah led her through a courtyard that she recognized; there upon the floor had been painted an exact map of the whole of Westeros. This time though the courtyard and the map were whole and the beauty and the size of the continent as she looked at it from above gave her pause. Daenerys stopped walking and spoke, not addressing anyone in particular. "There was no one sewing dragon banners and drinking to my health was there? I was nothing more than a deluded little girl, no better than my brother."

The thing that looked like Jorah spoke. "No my queen there was not." He walked to where she stood and put his hand on her shoulder, he continued. "The common people are only concerned about caring for themselves and their families, the squabbles of the nobility have no effect on their lives." 

This made Daenerys's emotions begin to overwhelm her once more. "Until a mad queen comes along and burns them all in a blind rage like animals in their holes you mean." She bitterly spat, "Until they are used as nothing more than pawns in a game they do not even know is being played around them, let alone understand." She openly allowed the tears to flow now, no longer attempting to hide them to maintain her pride. 

"We are almost there Khalessi." Jorah stated in a calm voice, "Please follow me."

They walked out of the courtyard and down a few more corridors until they made it to the throne room. It too was precisely as she remembered it, though just as with the courtyard it too was intact. When she first walked in for just one moment she forgot her sadness and self-loathing because there in front of her, flanking the throne, were Visyron and Rhagal. 

Daenerys ran towards them her arms outstretched "My children! I thought I would never see either of you again!" When she reached them she found that unlike the other apparitions she had seen in this place, excluding the thing that looked like Jorah, she could physically touch them. This surprised her, and then it concerned her. It was then she noticed the figure sitting on the throne. 

She had never seen the man before, but just looking at his features told her exactly who he was. He was very tall, with dark tan skin like a Dothraki, but had her silver-gold hair and violet eyes in a braid down past his waist. "Rhago" she whispered softly in disbelief. "Is that you? Are you my son?" 

The figure looked down at her from the throne, almost sympathetically. "I would have been, in a way, had I been allowed to live." He spoke in a deep soothing voice. "As it is, I am R'hllor, who most know as the Lord of Light, and you are the Mother of Dragons, the creatures I gave to mankind to fight the Darkness. And both I and the world still need you."

Daenerys had not grown up religious; Viserys had not been the pious type. But she had been educated about the various religions of both Essos and Westeros. She knew about the Seven because that was the predominant religion of Westeros. To a lesser extent, she had also been taught about the old Gods worshipped in the North and even the Drowned God of the Iron Islands. The Lord of Light was worshipped in Essos, and growing up she had been exposed to the religion. But what did the Lord of Light need with her?

He continued. "Even as we speak, the Darkness is starting to consume the world of man. The Great Other has already taken hold, and time is running out to stop him. I need you."

This sudden declaration confused Daenerys. "We stopped the Night King at the Battle of Winterfell. A dagger was driven right through his heart, his body, along with his entire army, shattered to pieces."

R'hllor replied "You witnessed nothing more than an insignificant body destroyed. The Great Other is not defeated so easily. The result of that battle was precisely what he wanted."

"What is this Great Other of which you speak that was able to avoid his own downfall and fool the world into thinking he had been destroyed?” Daenerys asked, taken aback to learn that despite all of the sacrifices made that night, the enemy not only remained undefeated but instead had been helped. 

R'hllor smiled at her "He is the God of Darkness and Cold, just as I am the Lord of Light and Warmth. We have been adversaries for as long as there has been a world for us to share. He has gone by many names. You know him as the Night King, or more recently as Brandon of House Stark."

Daenerys could not find the words to express her shock over what she had just heard. John’s brother? The young crippled boy who called himself the Three-Eyed Raven? The child who claimed to have the power to travel inside the head of animals? The one she had encountered at Winterfell? Did John know, had he been helping him? There were so many questions now swirling through her mind. 

R’hllor's voice filled the silence. “The Great Other is a master of deception, even those that get close to him never suspect who or what he is. Your John knew nothing of his brother's true identity.” 

“But his brother was just a young man! How could he have been a god?” Daenerys asked. 

“The soul that dwells within that body has been in existence from the beginning of time. The Great Other has been reborn into new forms on multiple occasions, though this reincarnation is particularly powerful. The boy known as Brandon Stark has been alive in one way, shape, or form for thousands of years. He can travel through memory, and therefore, in a way, through time. The ability that many perceived as being able to see the future was, in fact, Bran reliving the memories of what had already happened to himself. It was through Bran's actions, or more accurately many of his inactions that led to your demise.”

“How could he have led to my demise?” Daenerys asked coldly. “He did not kill my dragons. He did not make me burn the city of King's Landing. I am the monster that did that.”

“Bran, as you know him now, did kill Viseryn. He wielded the spear, in the body of the Night King as you knew him then. Bran, with his power of sight, is the one who did not inform you of the Greyjoy fleet at Dragonstone, even though he knew it was there. And while it is true that you are the one who burned down King's Landing, Bran was the one who led you to a dark enough place in your mind that you were willing to make that decision.”

Tears once more began to flow freely down Daenerys’s cheeks. “Why?!?” she sobbed. “Why would he do this to me? What did I do to him to deserve this?”

“You were my messenger,” R’hllor said, stoically. “You and your children are the biggest threat to his power, and you needed to be destroyed, and not just physically, but in the minds of the people as well.”

“I was not raised to worship the Red God. How am I your messenger?” She said, looking up at him through tear-filled eyes. 

“Where do you think dragons are from? And how did you think that Valeryians were able to control them? This was through my will. There must always be a balance between the Light and the Dark, the Warmth and the Cold. The dragons were my way of helping to keep that balance, fire bound in flesh. But fire can easily burn out of control, so the Valeryians were the people chosen to help control that fire. Until all but one were destroyed, then that responsibility fell solely upon your family.” 

“But my family is gone, I am...was the last one left.” She paused for a moment but then continued. “Besides John of course, but he has no interest in ruling.”

R’hllor spoke as if explaining something to a child “ I am not talking about ruling anything. I am talking about holding back the Darkness to save the world from becoming only a place of the cold and the dead. You were not meant to rule. You were meant to save the world of men. John Snow may prove useful in this fight, but only you are the Mother of Dragons, only you can truly bring balance back into the world. Ruling is of no consequence. This isn’t about banners and titles; this is about life and death.”

“I’m not sure that I’m the one you want. I couldn’t even keep my children safe; I’ve brought three dragons back into the world, but I’ve let two of them slip back out of it.” As she said this Daenerys was gently stroking Rhaegal on the neck, feeling her overwhelming sense of loss. 

“Daenerys” R’hllor spoke gently, looking down at her from the throne like a parent looking down at a small child “I am giving you a second chance to make things right in the world. I’m giving you a chance to not only redeem yourself but your family and your people.”

“How do I know that I can trust you? How do I know that you’re not the Great Other and that I am not just being further led astray into darkness?" Daenerys asked, making defiant eye contact with the man on the throne. 

R’hllor laughed and stood, the throne melting away as he did. “You have already become warier of your surroundings, that is good. You do not and cannot be certain, but perhaps I can offer you a gesture of my goodwill.” 

Daenerys eyed him wearily, “And what would that be?”

R’hllor gestured towards the dragons flanking where the throne had been. “Your children of course.”


	7. Arya

#  **Arya**

The wind and rain pounded on the ship, tossing it to and fro across the waves as if it were nothing more than a child's toy. The storm had come on quickly, surprising even the most experienced of the sailors on the ship, and they had barely enough time to reign in the sails before they were struck with the tempest's full fury. Arya Stark raced around the decks doing her best to ensure that the tied down cargo was not shifting about and doing all she could to stay out of the way of those preventing the ship from capsizing in the storm. This had not been what she was expecting when she set forth months ago to sail across the sunset sea. “Where did this storm come from!?” She yelled at the top of her lungs at her first mate who was mere feet away. She had to repeat herself multiple times before the man could hear her over the torrent of rain.

“I don’t know, my lady. We’re north-west of the Iron Islands, and the weather here is unpredictable even during the summer. Winter storms will just come out of nowhere.” He yelled back, his voice mostly being carried away by the wind. 

“Will we be able to make it through this storm?” Arya screamed back at him, rain pounding her face and getting into her eyes and mouth. 

“This ship can take it, we just need to make sure she doesn’t unexpectedly spring a leak in her hull and we’ll be fine. You can go under now my lady, we have this handled and now just need to ride it out.” He let go of one of the ropes that was holding him on board to motion towards the hatch leading down into the cabins and galley.

This made Arya feel a bit better and she made her way towards the hatch to the cabins to wait it out. 

From the time she was a little girl, she had wanted to explore the world, to sail west into the sunset sea and discover what had never been seen by any other Westerosi. She had been excited about the prospect of seeing new people, taking in new sights, and possibly even seeing mythical creatures. She had never thought in all of her life she would be allowed to fulfill her dream, but here she was. All she had endured, including the battle for the dawn and the dragon siege of King’s Landing had been more than enough to help her decide that she needed to leave Westeros.

The voyage had now lasted several months, and besides the occasional slight shortage of water or rough weather, had thus far gone well. They had traveled from the port of King’s Landing south down the narrow sea. They had stopped at ports all along the eastern coast of Westeros to both restock and for Arya to experience as many of the Westerosi cities as she could before leaving for good. She had never been so far south and had greatly enjoyed the cities in Dorne and all along the southern coast and in the summer seas. She had seen that Dorne had very different ideas about what was proper for a lady, and she met many other women who were also trained in the arts of combat. She had enjoyed meeting with these men and women, training with them, and talking to them, so much so that she had almost halted her voyage completely to stay there, but the unexplored west continued to call to her. 

After Dorne, they had turned up to follow the coast of the continent north and now had visited many of the western cities of the continent, including the famed Lannisport. The reasoning for this had been that they needed to stock up on food and water at the farthest known western point before heading in that direction, and that happened to be in a cluster of islands north-west of the Iron Islands. A point known as Lonely Light. The port, if it could be called that, lived up to its name. It was a little more than eight days sail away from Old Wyk, which was hardly even much of an island itself and had been surrounded by nothing more than reefs and sandbeds. The people there had been somewhat strange, but they had seal meat, fish and water to trade and were able to set the ship up with enough food to last for weeks. And hopefully, that would be enough. Arya had loved every minute of it and was not the least bit emotional about watching the continent of Westeros disappear beyond the horizon behind her. 

Suddenly as she was almost to the hatch leading down into the bowels of her ship the water to the starboard side began to bubble and froth violently, more so than if it were a result of the storm that was raging around them. Arya stumbled as that side of the ship began to rise, tilting the ship into a steep angle, steep enough that Arya and the other members of the crew needed to hold on to the masts and railings to not be thrown from their feet. "What the hell is that?" Arya screamed over the wind.

The first mate of the ship was staring at the frothing water, both entranced and terrified. Arya had to scream his name several times before she was able to get him to answer. "I don't want to say what I think it is out loud. I feel as though that would only make it more real." Just as he finished speaking, the boat rocked violently; something had hit the hull. Something from underneath the water. There was a loud splintering sound and shards of wood blasted from the side of the vessel; a hole had been punctured.

Arya looked around at the waters surrounding the boat wildly. Between the wind, and the rain, and the waves she couldn't make anything out. "What the hell is going on!?!" She screamed, "did we hit a reef or a sandbar!?!" That was when she noticed most of the crew were facing the same direction, with the same awestruck faces. When she followed their eyes she saw what they were looking at.

From the water emerged a serpentine neck, covered in slick blue-green, almost glassy looking, interlocking scales. At the end of the neck was a head that would not have looked out of place on one of Daenerys's dragons that she had seen at Winterfell. Instead of the horns that the dragons had, this creature had large semi-transparent frills that extended all the way from the tip of its snout, up over its head and down its neck until they were out of sight below the level of the waves. The eyes glowed in their sockets an unnerving shade of deep blue that reminded her of sapphires, or deep dark water. Just as the creature came fully into sight the wind and rain almost supernaturally died down and the view of the majestic animal became clear. It was no mirage, no hallucination, there was no question, it was there in the flesh. Arya couldn't help but whisper, "Is that a sea dragon?"

The nearest sailor answered her, "Aye my lady. I didn't think they still existed. I had only heard old sailors' tales of them." He, like everyone else on the ship, could not take their eyes away from the rapidly approaching sea dragon.

"Should we fire my Lady?" Screamed one of the other crew who was stationed by the scorpion that had been mounted to the front of the vessel before they had disembarked. Her brother had insisted that all royal ships be outfitted with one before she had left. 

"Hold your fire, we don't want to anger it." She ordered back, holding up one fist that indicated the order in case he had not been able to hear her. 

It was amazing the grace and speed at which it moved; it approached the ship faster than even the fastest of the boats in Westeros, and the closer it got, the more details Arya could make out. One key difference between this creature and the dragons she had seen before was that this one had long thick whiskers emerging from the sides of its snout. The whiskers were thick and of a slightly golden color, and covered in small scales like those of a fish. There were two on either side and they appeared to move independently. Another difference she saw was that the teeth of this dragon were much longer, and sharper with a backward curve to each one. This, she thought to herself, was probably so that if it caught fish or seals or any other slippery sea creature it could not escape, and when it struggled it would simply become more impaled.

It was when the sea dragon came right up to the boat Arya could see just how large it was. The head and neck coming out of the water alone easily reached above the side of the boat, well over 15 feet, and while Arya could not see the remainder of the body she shuttered to think of just how large it could be. It was while the sea dragon was close that Arya saw the other major difference between this and the dragons Daenerys had had. Their weapon. Instead of breathing fire the sea dragon let out a jet of water that was thicker than a mans torso and strong enough that it blasted directly through the hull of the ship, sending huge splinters through the air and ripping a poor sailor in half as it passed through him, adding his blood and refuse to the chaos. 

Arya was stunned at what she saw; the dragon continued to attack, using its jet of water blast through the mast and send it toppling into the ocean. To make the scene worse, she saw what the dragon was doing with her crew. It would use its jet to sweep them off the boat, or to shear off a leg, arm or head, and when they were incapacitated it would pick up the pieces and swallow them whole, like a lizard with its prey. 

The ship was breaking apart. There was nowhere for her to go to find safety and the dragon was running out of crew members to eviscerate. When the great head turned towards her, she did the only thing she could think of to save herself, and dove into the choppy ocean below. The water swallowed her up, her clothes becoming heavy and the weight dragging her down into the depths. “Valar Morghulis,” she thought. Better to die by the sea than to be eaten by this beast. Arya felt a sharp pain in her shoulder and her world went black.


	8. Daenerys

**Daenerys**

Daenerys’s eyes flew open as she gasped air into her lungs. It hurt to breathe. It was similar to the feeling of one who had slept for too long, and upon waking had cramps in all of their limbs. This feeling was like that, but it was everywhere, even in her mind. The world seemed too bright to her eyes, and her lungs felt as though they were on fire as they pumped air in and out. Where was she, she thought, what had happened? Was she dreaming? When did the dream start? Memories began flooding back to her: the siege of King's Landing, the destruction of the Red Keep, the burning of the people, the betrayal of Jon Snow. Had it all happened? Was it all just a nightmare? 

Very slowly Daenerys was able to painfully sit upright and take in her surroundings. It was not bright in the room if this could even be called a room. She found herself in what was little more than a stone ruin of some ancient building. It was night, and a small fire was burning towards the center of the space. Beside the fire, with his back to her was an old man, staring intently into the flames. He was easily in his sixth decade of life, with thining, shaggy grey hair, and wearing a long, thick red robe that was stained and ragged. He appeared to be muttering something to himself, but she could not tell what it was. She did not know where she was, but it did appear that all of her horrible memories had not been a dream. Whatever had happened after Jon's betrayal, she ended up here without knowing how or why. If her dreams were to be believed she had spoken to the Lord of Light, she had a purpose in this world, despite her previous vile deeds. 

It was just then that the man sitting next to the fire turned and noticed her sitting up behind him, and he rushed over. “Daenerys! You’re awake! Praise R’hllor I had begun to think you would never open your eyes and that I was nothing more than a fool.” He sputtered as he approached. “I was afraid you would lay there until you wasted away and died to a point beyond my abilities.” He continued, reaching out to touch Daenerys’s face. 

Daenerys’s pulled away as best as she could from the man's hand, “I’m sorry but who are you? What have you done to me?”

The man stopped suddenly as if confused by this question, but then seemed to recover himself. “My apologies my lady, but you’ve been in my care for so long now I forgot that we have not officially met. I am Bhago, priest of the Lord of Light. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

It took a moment for Daenerys to process what the man had said. All she came up with was “My Queen…”

“Excuse me?” Bhago responded. 

“You shall address me as ‘my queen’, I am Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,” She said, feeling less and less sure of herself with every word that came out of her mouth. 

Bhago paused thoughtfully. “That may be the last thing you remember, but…I do not wish to sound disrespectful my lady, but you have been here for weeks, and this is not Westeros.” Bhago finished speaking and winced slightly as he did, bracing himself for her reaction. 

Daenerys was shocked to find that she had been gone for weeks if this man were to be believed, if that were so then Westeros was sure to have another ruler in place, “Probably Jon Snow that traitorous snake” she muttered under her breath. 

“What was that my lady?” Bhago asked imploringly. 

“Nothing” Daenerys quickly answered. “How long have I been here? Is there any news from Westeros?”

“You have been here for a little over two moons' turn my lady, but we are isolated here, and I have heard no news from the outside world since the time I was left here over a year ago.” Bhago replied. 

Daenerys was disappointed to hear that there was no news, but was unsurprised; wherever they were was clearly outside the normal realms of society. “Where are we?” She asked. 

“We are in the home of your ancestors, my lady: the heart of Old Valyria.” 

Daenerys studied her surroundings more closely, taking in every detail of the old structure. “But how did I get here? Last I knew, I was in the Red Keep of King's Landing in Westeros.”

Bhago was surprised to hear that she did not know. Had the dragon brought her here on his own? “You were brought here by a great black dragon; he came out of the sky one night and delivered you to me. When you arrived you were already dead, but I implored my lord to bring you back, and here you are.”

“Drogon?!” Daenerys said, sitting up a bit straighter and looking around wildly as if she would be able to see Drogon through the roof of the building. “Drogon brought me here? He’s alive? Where is he, I want to see him, I have to see that he’s alright.”

“So that was the beast's name. A beautiful creature, most fearsome thing I have ever laid my eyes upon.” He looked at Daenerys for a reaction, but she continued to listen intently, waiting to hear more about her dragon. Bhago’s shoulders slumped. “I have not seen the dragon, Drogon is it, since the night he brought you here. He flew off somewhere and hasn’t been back.” 

Daenerys turned her eyes towards the door and stared as if she were looking at a point miles away. “He’ll be back. He always comes back to his mother.” 

There was silence in the room until Bhago cleared his throat and Daenerys turned to look at him. “If you don’t mind my lady,” he asked, “What happened to you in Westeros, what do you remember?”

“I… I don’t fully know” Daenerys started, searching her memories, attempting to sort out what had been real and what she may have imagined. “I had taken the iron throne, had taken back what was mine by right of birth.” Daenerys paused, and a tear fell onto one cheek, glistening in the light of the small fire. “But I lost a part of myself to do it. I became the kind of monster that I had sworn to destroy. I burned them…. I burned them all…” Her voice caught in her throat. 

“Were you caught in the fire? Is that why Drogon brought you here?” Bhago asked quietly. He had known that she had been stabbed through the heart; he had seen the wound that had long since turned to a scar, but he needed to ask her to elaborate somehow. 

Daenerys glared at him. “Fire cannot hurt a dragon” she spat. “No… I was betrayed by one I thought loyal.” The anger fled from her voice “Though maybe I deserved it, maybe I gave him no other choice, I may have conquered the world, but then how many more innocents would burn?” Another silence filled the room. “Why did you have to bring me back? I am not deserving of a second chance,” she said, pleading in her eyes. 

Bhago was taken aback. “My lady, it was my purpose from the Lord of Light, it has always been my purpose. I was here to serve you by bringing you back to the land of the living.” 

“All those who serve me end up dead or betraying me. Which will you be?” She replied in a flat voice. 

Bhago could not help but let the slightest touch of a laugh come through “Dead I suppose. I am already on my way down that path as it is.” As he spoke he showed her his arm, the portion of his body that was the most grey and cracked with the disease. Daenerys recoiled from the sight. “I was afraid that I might somehow pass it on to you, but it seems the old legends are true. The Valeryians are stronger than other men, and you don’t appear to be affected in the least.” Putting his arm down he added, “Anything I can do within my power, I will do to serve you, my lady.”

“Why do you wish to serve me? We’ve never met. Not only that but I’m sure my reputation proceeds me. Why would a man such as yourself wish for that?” Daenerys asked, looking back out the entryway into the night.

“Because my lady, I am a servant of R’hllor, the Lord of Light, and you are the mother of dragons. You are his messenger,” Bhago stated frankly. 

Daenerys knew she had heard that phrase before, it sounded like something out of a dream. “What did you call me?” She asked.

"The messenger of R'hllor?" Bhago repeated.

Daenerys paused in thought, wondering where she had heard that before.


	9. Tyrion

**Tyrion**

Tyrion sat at the table in the chamber of the hand, his chamber for not the first time in his life, with his fifth glass of wine of the day beside him. It was only midday, but he had begun to drink heavily again after the crowning of King Brandon Stark, first of his name, king of the Andals, but now not the first men, and all of those frivolous titles that the king had to carry around like a dead weight. A king who had gotten his position and all of his worthless titles at his own suggestion. A suggestion that had now been bothering him since the day of the coronation several moons ago. 

For the first thing, he wasn’t sure why Bran had even come to mind as a candidate for king. It was true that he had been locked away in the dungeons for a few weeks, after the battle. He had also just suffered some of the most traumatic losses of his life when he had been locked up, with both his brother and sister dead. The city in which he had protected and served burned and watching his queen, a woman whom he had had so much faith in succumb to madness. While in the cells he relived these scenes, again and again, he watched the flames of the city and the crumbling bricks in his mind, and he racked his brain for ways in which he could have prevented them, or how he could have just saved one more life. It was there in the darkness of his cell that he had first had the thought that it was Brandon Stark who now deserved the crown, and at the time it had made sense that he would be the fittest to rule, something about having the greatest story. Looking back it seemed strange that this would come to mind at all. Tyrion had hardly known Bran Stark, he had seemed a competent young boy when he had seen him as the lord of Winterfell nearly a decade before after his trip to the wall. But since the siege at Winterfell and the battle for the dawn Bran had been changed. He was now quiet in a way that came off as calculating, and while initially, Tyrion had hoped that the boy would prove useful with what was supposedly his near-omnipotent powers, he had done practically nothing to aid in the war. 

Now, in hindsight, this disturbed Tyrion. Hadn’t the boy known that Euron Greyjoy's fleet would be at Dragonstone? If he had given some warning then Rhagal wouldn’t have been shot from the sky, Daenerys’s fleet and armies wouldn’t have been sunk to the bottom of the ocean and Missandei would never have been captured. If that were the case then Daenerys may have not become the mad queen that she had, maybe King's Landing would not have been anything more than a ruin, and Tyrion would be serving a queen who deserved to sit the iron throne. But there in the dark, as he wallowed in his despair, Bran’s name came to mind, almost as if it had been whispered directly in his ear. 

Tyrion took another long drink of his wine, finishing the cup then refilling it once again. This did not even take into account the fact that when Tyrion had asked Bran if he would take the throne his response had been “Why do you think I’m here?” Had he been expecting to be named King? Of course, he had likely seen his appointment in his visions of the future, but this meant that his ascension to the throne had been a tactical maneuver. One where he had intentionally withheld information to dispose of his rivals via means of a catspaw. In the case of Cersei, this meant using Daenerys and her dragon, and in the case of Daenerys, this meant using Jon Snow and his dagger. This thought made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

Tyrion wanted to believe that he was just being paranoid, that he was just creating a conspiracy in his mind when there was none to be had, but he could not shake the feeling. Something was very wrong with this situation and he didn’t know what to do about it. Up to this point, Bran had not shown himself to be a bad king nor a vengeful one. He just  _ was _ the king, and he had his small council make most of the decisions, a style of rule that was not uncommon. Unlike Robert, he did at least have a working knowledge of what was going on in the city and the realm as a whole, and unlike Cersei, he did not try to manipulate everything into serving himself in some way. Tyrion did not like the idea of Bran continuing to be king, but he didn’t know if it would be to anybody’s benefit to depose him. Winter was here and after the war the realm needed stability. 

The snows had begun to come to King's Landing, and while currently not deep, the cold posed problems. The city did not have many residents left; not after Daenerys had burned so many, but the situation was no better for the survivors. She had destroyed or damaged most of the buildings in the city, and those who were left alive had nowhere to live, with too few to rebuild. The cold got to everyone; even he, with his high status, had had cold nights where the wind was able to get in through the cracks in the walls of his chamber. Worse still every day more and more people were seeking sanctuary in King's Landing from places up north that were more affected by the cold. They came seeking shelter and food but found very little in still smoking landscape. Tyrion had done his best as the hand, working closely with the master of coin and the head maester to serve the needs of the people of Westeros and King's Landing, but the process was slow and progress was barely perceptible. This was all not to mention the fact that after the war of five kings there was, partially due to himself, no heir to the Westerlands and House Lannister. Tyrion scoffed at his thought, “I’m the last of the great Lannisters. Father would be furious.” As much as he did not like the idea of Bran being king, he knew now was not the time to act, he had other priorities to take care of. 

Tyrion sighed, who would be appointed ruler of the seven, no, six kingdoms anyway? No one he knew would be a worthy ruler, men were all just too greedy or too stupid to rule. The old adage about absolute power did seem to hold true, especially when all of the honorable men that he had known had been killed in the war. It was then that he thought of Sansa, his former wife and current queen of the North. Very little information had come to King's Landing from the North since the time of the crowning of King Bran and the succession of the territory. Some of this had to do with a lack of serviceable ravens, as most had been killed during the destruction of King's Landing, but he wondered if this were also intentional on her part. Sansa was a different woman than the one he had known so long ago in King's Landing. Between witnessing the death of her father, the abuse she received from Joffrey and Cersei to her brief but violent marriage to Ramsey Bolton, on top of her experiences from the war it was a wonder that she had not become madder than Queen Daenerys. Or maybe she is mad he chuckled to himself, she just lacks a dragon. Sansa had become a cunning woman with a keen sense for politics, and now she had become a queen. The parallels he saw between her and his late sister Cersei were too obvious to miss, she had learned the basics of the game of thrones from Cersei, and taught further by Littlefinger, who had eventually lost the game to his apprentice. Maybe she had learned a little too well. 

There came a soft knock at the door that disrupted him from his thoughts. “Come in” he yelled to whomever it was at the door. 

The door opened and Samwell Tarly the head maester stepped into the room.

“Sorry to disturb you my lord, but I have some ideas that may help alleviate the housing crisis in the city and I wanted to run them by you.”

Tyrion liked Sam. He was a bookish man just as himself, but unlike himself, he was also in many ways a virtuous one, with significantly less emotional baggage. It was true that it was strange that Sam had become Grand Maester, seeing as how he had never completed his maester training at the citadel, but these were strange times they were now living in. “Please come in. Anything helps, you know the Starks were right, winter really was coming this whole time.” He attempted to joke. Rather than laugh Sam appeared a bit saddened, it was then Tyrion remembered how close to Jon Snow the man had been. “Ehrm… sorry about that, I didn’t mean it like that, I didn’t mean to bring up Jon.”

Sam looked up, his expression lightening “I know that my lord, I just miss him, and I worry about him.”

“Have you heard anything from the wall?” Tyrion asked.

Sam looked away, “They say he’s left, went up North to live with the Freefolk”

Tyrion was unsurprised to hear this “Well… the way I see it, he will be happier there than trapped at the wall; maybe he’ll start a family and live a normal life. You should be pleased.”

Sam let out a sigh “In a way I am. There is no greater joy than holding your first child in your arms, and I’m happy that he may get to experience that just as I have and I know that he will do more good there than at the wall...I just know that now I’ll likely never see or hear from him again is all. I know that’s selfish.” He finished talking and the room filled with an awkward silence as both men stood there. 

“Well!” said Tyrion, clapping together his hands to try to move forward and away from the strange moment. “Let's take a look at that proposal, we’ve got a kingdom to serve.”


	10. Bran

The great other known as Bran the Broken, first of his name, sat in his chamber, the chamber of the King of Westeros. Looking out over the recovering city of King’s Landing, he smiled humorlessly to himself; things had gone so well up to this point. He had always believed that this would be the beginning of his victory. All those centuries ago he had made his plans, but instead of feeling triumphant his apparent success made him nervous that something would go wrong. He knew that just because he was now king of Westeros, he wasn’t in the clear yet. There was still one who could disrupt his plans: R’hllor, the Lord of Light, and his great adversary. 

The great other as he was called by the red priests and Brandon of the House Stark, ruler of the Andals and the six Kingdoms as he was called by the people of Westeros, had planned for the long term. 

The people below him that he watched from his balcony, the people of King's Landing, and the realm suspected nothing of who he was. What they saw was his disguise, hiding in plain sight. To them, he was Bran the Broken, the Stark boy who had been thrown from a window and crippled but grew to be the King of Westeros. Word of his abilities as a powerful greenseer known in the North as the "three-eyed raven" had spread throughout the kingdom to the noble houses before trickling down to the peasants. Many already saw him as a savior, the one who was going to pick up the pieces after the fall of King’s Landing. The one who came after the madness and death and destruction of the Dragon Queen. Even more amusing was that they had demonized Daenerys Targaryen, the last of the dragon lords; that he alone knew would have been the one who could have stopped him. But the opinions of the common people were so easily manipulated, all it took was the death of her closest allies for her to burn down one city and suddenly she was the enemy. Perfect.

He was a mere few steps until his plan came to fruition, the time when his victory would be complete, and after millennia of waiting, he could practically taste his final glory. If all went according to plan the world would, within decades, be shrouded in eternal cold and darkness; not only that but mankind would follow him to their doom willingly, like sheep following the goat to the slaughter. 

The first phase of his plan, to become the King of the continent of Westeros, was already completed. It was not that he particularly cared to rule per se, but rather that his goal was to ensure that he was in a position to be seen and heard by the masses. Kings were public figures; they were looked upon as being greater than men. All of his actions would be public knowledge and word of his deeds would spread quickly, and this was the way he wanted it. The next phase was lulling the realm into a false sense of faith and security. First, this upcoming winter would be an unexpectedly light one; the realm would be content and the common people would be in a place to accept the rule of the new king as a good one. As he knew, it did not matter who ruled to most people, as long as their feet were warm and their bellies were full. The following summer would be long and prosperous and would further work to lull the people into a false sense of complacency. It was going to be here, at the end of the next summer, in a land of plenty when he would make his move. 

The subsequent winter following the prosperous summer would be long and cold and would cripple the realm. The poor would begin to starve and die off, and the lack of resources would create dissent among the people and their local lords, the lesser noble houses of Westeros. Naturally many of the problems of the realm would be brought to him, Bran would then step in, and unlike any king before him would be able to perform miracles that would entrance the minds of the weak. He would be able to bring frozen and starved loved ones back from the dead, and he would be able to lift the winters cold and bring about the summer again, saving them all. He would be heralded as a hero, and eventually, if all went as planned, as a god. A new cult would begin in Westeros, one in which he was the center, with zealot followers to do his bidding, and to spread his word. Anything he said would be seen as from the mouth of God himself, and his cult of followers would grow. With the people worshipping him he would be able to make his final strike, and the realms of men would fall and they will have made the choice to follow him into the dark themselves. 

Bran sat back down in his chair; he had just regained the ability to stand a few days before as his new body gradually transformed, and had spent that time strengthening himself. But he could only do this when he was alone, he still needed to keep up his persona of “Bran the Broken”, at least until he had the realm in the palm of his hand. He turned the chair around and began to roll out of his chambers; he had a small council meeting to attend. He found these meetings tedious at best; they were always about what could be done to improve the lives of his sheep subjects. In truth, what happened to them was very little of his concern, but he attended the small council meetings for two reasons. One, to seem as though he were a present and functional king, unlike his predecessor Robert Baratheon. And two, he went to see if any news had been heard from his small council regarding the whereabouts of Daenerys Targaryen’s body and her dragon Drogon.

More and more her whereabouts weighed on his mind, he worried about the fact that her dragon had not been seen in the few months in which she had gone missing. This concerned him because he knew, better than any man alive, that dragons were not simply dumb beasts like a horse or cow. But rather they were intelligent, with an understanding of their riders that was supernatural. Drogon could have taken Daenerys anywhere, and wherever he went, it had been out of range of any of his subjects or powers. Over the past few months, he had warged into numerous birds and beasts, to extend his sight but to no avail. They were nowhere to be seen. 

“Maybe today will be different,” he thought to himself, “maybe today will be the day when one of them shows themselves to be competent in their duties to the crown.” If not then it would be up to him once again to search for them. Warging into animals as far as his range could reach, searching the whole of Westeros and as far as he could across the narrow sea. The world was large, but they could not escape his sight forever. 


	11. Brienne

Brienne was now officially worried. Her blood had not come for five moons now, and her midsection had started to swell to the point that her armor fit too tightly for comfort. There was no more room for denial; she was with child. She also knew that there was no denying that Jaime Lannister was the father. Her and Jaime had a short and torrid affair following the battle at Winterfell. But just as with most things in her life, it had ended just as she thought she could be happy. Jaime had left for his sister and lover and had died in the battle of King’s Landing. Even worse, according to what rumors she heard, he had been crushed underneath the collapsing red keep along with his twin sister, supposedly found together arm in arm. Just thinking about it made her feel nauseous. Not only had he died, but he had also left her to be with his sister, one of the vilest and most evil people to have ever lived. 

Brienne didn’t know what to do. She was head of the Kingsguard, had sworn an oath to take no husband and bear no children, and here she was, breaking an oath. Not only that, she had broken her oath with a traitor, a "Kingslayer”, she couldn’t help but think. She needed to find help with someone she knew would be trustworthy, and as much as she hated the idea, she knew who to go to: Tyrion Lannister.

Brienne had mixed feelings for Tyrion; he had been the hand of the King to Joffrey Lannister and Daenerys Targaryen, both of whom were undisputable monsters. Tyrion was also the one who had freed Jaime from his imprisonment with the Mad Queen Daenerys, a move that had ultimately led to his death. Despite this, she knew that Tyrion had a good heart. He had been brave enough to butt heads with the sadistic King Joffrey. And everyone knew that he had openly defied the mad queen in front of her armies, choosing his conscious over his life after King's Landing was destroyed. He had loved Jaime, and as strange as it was had loved his sister, even knowing what a vile person she was. She knew Jamie had loved Tyrion as well and had said he would trust Tyrion above all others for anything. It was due to this reputation that she was now willing to come forward to him asking for his help and protection. She hoped that she wasn't about to make a huge mistake.

With bated breath, Brienne ascended the stairs to the quarters of the hand of the king. As she looked around, even months later, she could not help but be both horrified and amazed at the destruction that was wrecked upon the castle by Daenerys and her dragon. The stones in the walls had been softened by the intensity of the fire, and as they had cooled they had left gaps between them that let in the cold early winter air. The roof, though masons had worked to reinforce it, was still collapsing in places, and it felt dangerous to walk down the hallways. 

After what felt like an eternity Brienne made it to the door of the chamber and knocked once loudly on the door. No response came for a moment, and Brienne was almost relieved and about to leave when the door swung open revealing Tyrion, holding a glass of dark Dornish wine. “Sir Brienne!” he exclaimed, clearly surprised to see her. “Is there something I can help you with? Please come in! Come in.” he said as he moved aside to allow her to pass. 

Tentatively Brienne stepped through the door and walked towards the table and chairs at the center of the room. “Tyrion…” she paused, willing the words to come out. “I need to talk to you about Jaime.” 

This caused Tyrion to pause in his walk over to join her at the table. “Ah...yes...I heard about you and Jaime after the battle of Winterfell...He was the one who knighted you.” He paused. “I’m sure his passing has been hard” He sat at the table opposite Brienne. “I know it has for me...I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

“About what my Lord?” Brienne asked, happy for the change of topic, even if it was temporary. 

“I wanted to tell you that I am pleased that it is someone as noble as yourself that is in a way carrying on Jaime’s legacy. I loved my brother, but you and I know that he had done some things in his life that were...vile…But despite that, some good came from his life: that of our first female knight. And I do not say this lightly, but he could not have made a better choice.” Tyrion poured a second glass of wine and passed it across the table to Brienne. “To my brother, to Jaime,” he said, raising his glass above his head in a toast. 

Brienne sat, not raising her glass, wishing she could be anywhere else right now than at this table. “Brienne?" Tyrion said, questioningly, still holding his wine above his head. “This is the part where you raise your glass as well. You know, as a toast.”

“Tyrion, I have to tell you something. Jaime and I were together, only for a few nights, but we were...,” she faltered. Brienne wanted to release the words as fast as she could manage, if for no other reason than so that the experience would be over faster.

Tyrion, nodded awkwardly, clearly surprised by the turn of the conversation. “I had heard as much, but I didn’t think it was the kind of conversation you would want to have with me”

Brianne nodded stiffly, “Right.” There was a long, awkward pause.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Tyrion spoke, attempting to break the silence. “I think you two would have been an excellent match; I always thought Jaime needed someone that could give him a good wallop and keep him humble.” 

Brienne sighed, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and said it. “I’m with child my lord, and it is Jaime’s,” the words finally spilled out. 

Tyrion dropped his glass and made no move to pick up the pieces. Another awkward pause fell between them, and the minutes stretched by. 

Brienne began to stand up from the table “I think I will take my leave my Lord, I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

“No, wait!” Tyrion said, finally snapping out of his silent stillness and jumping out of his chair. Hurrying over to where Brienne stood halfway out of her chair, now he was the one with words pouring out. “Sir Brienne please don’t leave! We have so much to discuss!” Slowly Brienne sat back down. “Please Brienne, may I get you something else to drink, a glass of water maybe?” Tyrion rushed to the door and shouted at the guard posted down the hallway. “Sir! Fetch us a pitcher of water! And not the swill that you have on hand! Get it directly from the well!” As the door closed he rushed back towards the table and sat back down. “I want you to know Sir Brienne, I will do anything I can to serve you.”

“My Lord, you are too kind. I didn’t know who else to turn to,” Brienne spoke, looking down at the table, not making eye contact with Tyrion. Brienne, began to cry, tears streaming down her face. It was the first time she had said it out loud, and it felt more real than ever now. She was ashamed of herself for showing her emotions; she had sworn so long ago that she would never cry in front of a man again. “I’ve broken my vows, I’ve betrayed my King.”

Tyrion reached out and tilted her chin upwards to face her face towards his own. “My Lady, you’ve broken no vow. You were with Jaime before you took your vows, you have betrayed no one...Not to mention, you’ve always been a breaker of traditions, why not break another.” He smiled consolingly, “I know we do not know each other well, but you are now family, the only family I’ve got. I swear to you, you and your child will want for nothing, and no one will hurt you.” 

Brienne’s tears slowed, and she wiped her face with her sleeve. “Thank you, my Lord.” Her voice was shaking, but she was already feeling relief flowing through her.

“Please,” Tyrion said softly. “Call me Tyrion.”

“Yes, Lord Tyrion,” Brienne answered.

“We’ll work on that. Now!” He said loudly, clapping his hands together. “Let’s find Maester Tarly, you need someone with some medical knowledge to take care of you.”

“Is he going to be trustworthy?” Brienne asked apprehensively. 

At this Tyrion laughed, “Sam is an honorable man, but if you’ll remember, he’s also fathered a child against his vows. I’ve pretty sure he’ll more than understand.” There was a knock at the door. Tyrion took the water from the guard and spoke before he could leave. “Thank you, my good sir, now if you would be so kind as to go and fetch Maester Tarly for me, please tell him to use discretion.” With that, the guard walked off.

Brienne finally felt as though she had a weight taken off of her chest, but now new anxieties began to creep into the back of her mind. She was going to be a mother. She didn’t know if she could do this. Her mother had died when she was young and she had grown up with only her father. She did need all the support she could get. 


	12. Daenerys

“Bhago?” Daenerys turned to the priest that had looked after her for the past week, “how long have you been inflicted with that terrible disease?”

The priest in the red robes turned from his position watching the sunset to meet her gaze. “For quite a while now my lady, I found the first signs of the infection on my arm a little over a year ago now.” He said, trying his hardest to sound factual and not emotional. Despite his tone, Daenerys’s eyes seemed to fall at his words. “But not to worry my lady.” he added, “it does not appear as though the infection can spread to you if that is what you are worried about, it would have done so long ago if that were the case.”

“That was not my concern priest.” Daenerys replied, looking into his eyes “I am aware of how the disease progresses, I have seen it before. I know what happens to the minds of the infected as time goes on. I just want to know if that will happen to you.” 

Bhago was silent for a moment. “My lady… I cannot see the future, I was not blessed with this gift by the Lord of Light, but I do know medicine. From all that I have learned I know that there will come a time when my mind will no longer be my own. But, as the Bravossi say ‘Vhalar Morgulis’” 

This seemed to give Daenerys pause, “it is said that all men must die, yet here I am.”

Bhago chuckled, “That is true my lady, here you are, but I’m not sure that you any mere man, or woman as the case may be.”

Daenerys turned away to look back at the sunset as she spoke. “I was meaning to ask… how long do you think until your mind goes? Until you turn into one of those creatures that I hear in the night?”

Bhago turned his gaze towards the sunset as well “I do not know. I already feel like I am on borrowed time as it is. I believe the process should be gradual, so I will know when the change is coming, but I don’t know for certain, I’ve always sent the sufferers away before they reached that point.” Bhago chuckled again “If I hadn’t left my notes on the boat when I was exiled this would have made an interesting additional case study to add to my research.”

“Bhago,” Daenerys said in a small voice interrupting him. 

“Yes, my lady?”

“What will I do without you?” She said, not taking her eyes away from the sunset over the water.

The priest turned his head to face her. “You will be fine, you are a strong person and R’hllor brought you here for a reason. You don’t need me.” Silence passed between them and Daenerys did not respond. Bhago could not read the expression on her face, though she was deep in thought.

As they sat in silence they felt more than heard a rumbling in the distance, Bhago immediately feared that the sleeping volcano's that had so long ago destroyed Valyria were reawakening, but Daenerys simply turned towards the direction of the sound, "he's come back." She said with a smile crossing her lips, "my Drogon is here."

Bhago turned to face the direction she was looking and saw a sight that shocked him to his core, and that he would never forget. It was like the night Daenerys had been brought to him, but this flying shadow coming towards them now was much larger and was not the creature he had seen before. "My lady," he said, urgently pulling at Daenerys's arm. "We need to go. That...thing…is not your dragon." 

Daenerys turned toward him showing no fear in her eyes, "If you are afraid than go, my place is here. With him…" she pointed up towards the rapidly approaching form.

Valar Morgulis he thought to himself, death should no longer cause him to fear, he was on borrowed time as it was. "My place, for as long as I am able, is by your side, my Lady." He breathed, holding his position at her side, awaiting the landing of the flying shadow. Daenerys held his hand and squeezed it in anticipation but did not say a word as she continued to look up smiling at the approaching form.

With a rush of wind that very nearly knocked him off his feet, the gargantuan creature landed, and while it was a dragon it was a dragon that Bhago had never thought possible. The body of the creature was that of a dragon, though the largest one he had ever seen or heard of ever existing. The hide was covered in an impenetrable layer of thick, black scales, each rimmed with gold and bronze highlights that made the scales slightly shiny. They caught the light of the setting sun when the body twisted and turned in movement. Attached to the massive trunk were three fearsome dragon heads on the end of serpentine necks, the right being cream and gold in color with light, ice blue eyes, the left being green and bronze with pale yellow eyes, and the middle, the most terrifying of all was jet black with blazing red eyes.

It was Balerion, the king of dragons from myth. 

According to the ancient Valyrians, Balerion had been created by the lord of light to bring the gift of fire and light to mankind. The dragon was created with three heads, each representing the noblest qualities of mankind: wisdom, bravery, and ambition. The dragonlords were then created to both serve Balerion and to shepherd his flock, the dragons of old Valyria. To do this they were given the blood of the dragon and could not be hurt by fire as other men were, or so the legends had told. Balerion had worked with the dragon lords of old to bring dragons into the world and had passed his qualities onto men. Balerion had been worshipped by the ancient Valeyrians, and as was most well known his visage had been used by the Targaryens as their family crest. His name had also been that of the great dragon that Aegon the conqueror had ridden when he had united the seven kingdoms of Westeros. This had all been very symbolic, but what Bhago was seeing now was no symbol, it was the real thing, in the flesh.

Bhago could only think of one thing to do in the presence of such a majestic being, he knelt. When Balerion did not immediately kill him for his insolence he ventured a look up at Daenerys. She showed no fear, but instead walked directly up to the King of Dragons and embraced each of the heads in turn with tears streaming down her face and a smile stretching across her lips. 

“Rhaegal, Viserion! He said that he would send you back to me but I did not know if I could believe him. Here you are, and you’re bigger and stronger than I even remember you.” She continued to lovingly stroke the various heads, “I will never let anyone hurt you ever again, I will never allow you to suffer ever again, I have been blessed to have you brought back to me.” She then turned her focus directly to the jet black dragon head in the middle and gave it the tightest embrace she could manage around the large snout, “Drogon...my Drogon. You are the one who saved me, you are the one who saved your brothers. I can never repay you.” 

Bhago watched in both awe and terror as the small, silver-haired woman interacted with this great creature, this literal god as if it truly was her flesh and blood child. “She is the mother of dragons,” he whispered under his breath, unable to force himself to move. Finally, after Daenerys and her children had been reunited, Daenerys turned to him. 

“Bhago, please step forward.” She said with a commanding and noble voice, it was clear that the return of her dragons had profoundly affected her. Bhago struggled to move any more towards the great beast, but Daenerys was watching him and waiting. “Do not be afraid my friend, they will not hurt you.” She said with a much softer and more gentle voice as she reached out her hand towards him, beckoning him to approach. Bhago finally was able to do as he was bid, and walked towards the woman and her great beast. 

Daenerys looked up at Balerion lovingly, then back at Bhago before she spoke. “Now that I have my dragons back I wish to repay you for your help and your kindness.”

“My lady,” he stammered, “that is truly not necessary, I was only doing as I was bid by the Lord of Light, this is his will.”

“Be that as it may,” she returned, “I want to do something for you, anything within my power.” She paused in thought for a moment, “I may no longer be a queen, but I do have the most powerful creature in all of Westeros and Essos, I could take you to wherever you would like to go, and no one would be able to stop us.” She smiled at him, “Give you a more comfortable life until you live out your days.”

Bhago looked into her beautiful violet eyes as he processed what she had just said, to live out his life. He was going to die, and not only that, he was going to die slowly as his mind rotted away into nothing. His mind that he had been so proud of throughout his life, his mind that he had used to save and heal so many. It may take him several more years to die, but with his mind gone, he would be already dead long before his body followed. That was when he decided what he wanted from the mother of dragons. He looked up and met Daenerys’s eyes. “My lady,” he began, his voice shaking with fear and anticipation “I want to have my body consumed and burned away by dragon fire.”

There was silence and Daenerys looked shocked. “Are you asking me to kill you!” she finally responded. “I refuse, you’ve been nothing but kind to me, I wish to offer you kindness in return and this is what you ask of me!”

“Yes, my lady,” he said, making strong eye contact with the dragon lord before him. “I am already going to die, and as we discussed, before that time I will lose everything that makes me who I am. I will turn into nothing but an animal. I am asking you to let me die with dignity, and there is no purer death than that by fire, especially dragon fire. This is what I ask of you.”

Daenerys looked away from him, obviously distressed by his request. “I’ve already hurt so many, I don’t think I can do that again.”

“You would not be hurting me, you would be saving me. This is what I choose my lady. Please, I want to die with my soul still intact, and I can die happy and fulfilled having now served my true purpose to the lord of light.” Bhago responded, pleading in his voice, trying not to lose his courage. 

Tears once again welled in Daenerys’s eyes as she tilted her chin in an almost defiant looking gesture. “As you wish good priest, I will fulfill your request.” She paused, visibly shaking from preventing tears running down her face. “When will you be ready?”

Knowing his courage would not hold much longer Bhago responded to her “Now, my lady. I would like to go now. I do not know how much longer my mind will be my own.”

“Are you sure?” Daenerys almost whispered, “What will I do without you?”

“You are stronger than you know, you will be fine, and will rise from the ashes.” He whispered back to her, now not only trying to remain brave for himself but for her as well.

“As you wish…”

“I do, please.”

Looking away and pressing her face into the chest of her dragon she shouted “Dracarys!” and intense flame engulfed Bhago coming from all around him. 


	13. Sansa

Sansa sat atop her throne in the great hall of the castle of Winterfell, the seat of the Starks, home to the Queen of the North. It had been months now since she had declared the North to be an independent nation from the seven kingdoms and her title of Queen still had a ring to it that she enjoyed. She had always wanted to be queen, from the time that she was nothing more than a stupid little girl and was promised to marry Joffrey “Baratheon.” He was nothing more than a beastly creature, an evil boy with a penchant for violence and no idea how to play the game of thrones, a game that she felt she had mastered. Here she was, Queen, and there he was dead along with almost his entire family. The whole lot deserved it in her opinion, and her opinion mattered, she was queen after all. 

She took the time to look around her domain. She had run these halls from the time when she was a little girl, but the open space held much more significant meaning now. Damage had been done to many of the structures of the castle during the battle for the dawn that had taken place at Winterfell, and Sansa had personally overseen the cleaning and repairs to the ancient structure. The first order of business had been to clear the grounds of the dead; that had taken place before the wretched dragon queen had left to go and burn down King’s Landing in a fit of madness before getting killed. She and the people she burned deserved it too; she would not be shedding a tear any time soon for what transpired. Even her “brother” being sent up to the Wall she didn’t feel bad about. He was just another competitor for the throne, her throne, and now he was gone. Even Arya had left the country, and Sansa felt all the better for it. There would always be a Stark in Winterfell, and now she was the only Stark left. 

She had made other changes to the castle as well, specifically, she had had the carpenters and stonemasons design new fortifications for the towers and walls of the castle. Sansa intended to make the castle as impenetrable as the Eyrie. It was true that many places in the North needed masonry and carpentry to repair the damage from the march of the dead, but she had seen how difficult it had been to defend the castle of Winterfell during the battle against the dead, and now that the North was an independent nation she had to be wary of an attack coming from anywhere else in Westeros. This was the priority. It did not matter that her brother now sat on the throne; he was a different person from the little boy she had known growing up, and just as with her other siblings, he was a Stark, and therefore a rival. 

The doors opened and a man in a long grey cloak stepped into the throne room. “Your Grace, I hope I am not interrupting anything.” He said, bowing his head as he spoke to her. 

Good, she thought, he’s afraid of me. A little fear can go a long way; that was one of the few worthwhile things Cersei Lannister had taught her. “Thankfully, I am not currently busy. What do you need Maester Sedgewood?” She said, not getting up from her throne on the raised platform. 

The maester paused for a moment at the door before speaking “Ah...yes your Grace, I have received several ravens from the greater houses today that I thought you would prefer to handle personally.” He continued to stand by the door, like a patient and well-trained dog. 

With a wave of her hand, Sansa responded “Yes, my subjects are quite needy, aren’t they? You may approach Maester, I’ll take a look at your messages.”

The elderly maester followed the cue and approached the throne, shuffling through the small rolls of paper he held in his hand. “Thank you, your Grace, this should only take a few minutes of your time to get sorted.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “It had better; I’ve got many important duties to handle you know.”

The maester looked up at her as he approached “Yes your Grace.” He held one of the small pieces of paper out for Sansa to grab. “Here is the most urgent of the letters, and it in many ways sums up the content of all the rest.”

Sansa took the paper and read it quickly before she replied, “And what precisely do they want the crown to do about this? They were the ones who did not prepare properly for winter.”

Maester Sedgewood seemed struck. “My Grace, they were not able to prepare properly for winter because they were fighting in your brother's war against the dead and the mad queen's war for the crown. Winter has come and many of the men were not home. And even a few who did prepare lost resources to the dead and more resources feeding the forces garrisoned here during the battle for the dawn.”

“It was not my choice for them to go south and fight that worthless war," she snapped. “Had Jon listened to me then they never would have gone to King's Landing at all. It was their foolish following of a southern-born Snow, who may I correct is NOT a Stark, that has put them in their precarious positions. Therefore, they are no more than traitors to the Northern Crown, and they should feel lucky that they are not being beheaded for their insolence.” 

The Maester considered this for a time, wanting to ensure that he chose his words wisely. “Be that as it may your Grace, had the North not gone to war at King's Landing, then your brother Bran wouldn’t have ever taken the throne, and you would have never been able to peaceably give independence to the North from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, and you would not have your crown. These men were not traitors, they were just serving the ruler of the North at the time. Though it is true he was not as we believed your brother, he still has Stark blood running through his veins. Your people will go hungry my Grace, and if their Queen cannot provide for them, they will go elsewhere.”

Sansa was silent as if she were calculating in her mind what the most advantageous next move would be, and after a long moment, she spoke. “How do the food reserves here at Winterfell look? Would we be able to provide food if we chose to do so?”

“That is hard to say my Grace. Like many others, we lost much of our food reserves during the battle for the dawn, feeding all of the armies that were garrisoned here. As it is, we have enough food for our current population for three years, less if we supply the other lords of the realm.” Sedgewood said matter-of-factly. 

“Do we know how long this winter is going to last Maester? Will three years worth even be enough for ourselves?” Sansa asked in return, already knowing the answer. 

The old Maester sighed, “I’m afraid there is no way to know how long a given winter will last, your Grace. The common people always say ‘long summer, longer winter’ though there is no scientific basis for this. In written memory, winters can be anywhere from as short as one year to as long as five, and this one has yet to hit in full force yet.” 

“So what am I supposed to do? Let others starve sooner, or let ourselves starve later? I can’t make food appear from thin air.” She replied.

“I understand that your Grace, but these are the types of decisions that a ruler is forced to make from time to time.” Maester Sedgewood leveled his gaze at her.

“What about the Riverlands? They have close political ties with us. My mother was a Tully after all, and they weren’t attacked like the North was. And they may still be able to bring another harvest, provided this winter remains as it is. What if we treated for food with them?”

Maester Sedgewood responded “I’m not sure if that would work your Grace. we are no longer part of the Kingdoms, and any form of treaty with a Southern Kingdom might jeopardize the independence of our nation, which would be dangerous this soon after our succession. Also, many southerners consider you to be a traitor to the crown, with the North in open rebellion. Rumor has it, even your Uncle Edmure.” 

“Is that so?” Sansa spoke softly, a hint of anger in her voice. “If they consider me a traitor to the realm then I would hate to prove them wrong. They seem to have forgotten that it is due to the sacrifices of the North that the entirety of Westeros wasn’t overtaken by the armies of the dead.” She paused as the maester waited for her command. “Maester?”

“Yes, my Queen?”

“I need you to send a raven to Yara Greyjoy for me.” 

“What about my Queen?” Sedgewood asked, already feeling unnerved about the request.

“I believe her and I could come to an agreement regarding an alliance between the North and the Ironborn that she would find very interesting. Go now, and tell the other houses we will settle the issue of food shortly.” She waved her hand towards the door dismissively.

“Yes my Queen, right away my Queen.” Sedgewood bowed and hurriedly made his way towards the door.


	14. Jon

Jon had dreamt of fire and blood every night since the night they had stayed in that cave with the paintings by the first men. Every night he had woken with his brow and body feeling burning hot despite the bitter cold of his surroundings. Something was wrong with him and he was now that whatever it was would kill him. “Ye okay over there Snow?” called Tormund Giantsbane from his makeshift bedroll just a few feet away. “I could hear you talking in your sleep; sounds like the snarks have come to get you this night.”

“No snarks here Tormund, just dreaming I suppose,” Jon responded, not wishing to make the other man worry.

“Of women?” Tormund asked, a far away, hungry look gleaming in his eye.

Jon couldn’t help himself from laughing, “No, no women this time.”

“Men then,” Tormund said, rolling himself back over onto his bedroll, immediately losing interest in the subject. “Well keep it to yourself, Snow, we’ve got a long way to go tomorrow and we don’t need a pansy Southerner like you keeping us all up at night.” Before long Jon heard a loud snore from the lump of bearskin that was Tormund on his bedroll. The big man had already fallen back to sleep, leaving Jon alone with his thoughts.

Jon absent-mindedly stroked Ghost's fur as he stared into the pitiful fire and lost himself in deep thought. The dire wolf was laying beside him as he did every night, keeping himself and Jon warm. What were his dreams about? Why was he having them? In them, he always found himself at the same place in his dreams, back at King’s Landing. The city was covered in a thick layer of ice and snow, the wind was howling and winter was in full force. In the dream, there was also always a gargantuan bird perched atop the red keep. It was the same three-eyed black bird that he had seen on the wall of the cave. 

Since seeing the image, Jon knew that there was a connection to Bran. Bran had changed, become something that he had called the “three-eyed raven” and this image of a three-eyed bird could not be a coincidence. Jon didn’t believe in coincidence anymore, not after all that he had gone through. Always in his dreams, he had seen a volcano erupt from Blackwater Bay that lay just outside of King’s Landing, and out of the volcano rose a massive three-headed dragon. He wondered why he was seeing the unmistakable three-headed dragon sigil of the Targaryens. Of Queen Daenerys, whom he had betrayed and murdered. 

Could the dream simply be his mind's way of reconciling the past? Maybe he was reliving the events that led to the coronation of his brother, the indirect battle for the throne between Daenerys, the three-headed dragon, and Bran, the three-eyed raven? While no one could have known that was who would the throne at the time, in hindsight this at least made sense. But then he had to wonder: how did the winter setting and the cold play into this scenario? Sure winter had been on its way when the battle had taken place, but why was he seeing the city of King's Landing frozen over as if it were in the North rather than the South? What did that have to do with the defeat of Daenerys? This just further led his mind into darker and darker places, what if...and this had always been at the back of his mind, but even more so after the cave. What if, he had done the wrong thing? What if Daenerys was not the enemy? 

Jon had to shake this idea out of his mind. No. That was impossible. Maybe the cold was just a part of the dream because his body was so cold here beyond the Wall. And Bran was his brother, maybe not in blood, but he was still family. Bran was a little boy who cared about people. Jon had to stop here to correct himself, that was the Bran he had known, the Bran that now sat on the throne was a different person, a grown man who could now see into the past, present, and future. Time had changed that little boy into something else. And who was Jon to say he knew what Bran was like? Maybe what Jon was seeing, the three-eyed black bird, was a representation of Bran. Maybe somehow he would lead the world into cold and darkness just as the night king had attempted to do all too recently.

Jon took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. Or maybe it was just a damn dream. Maybe he had gotten spooked by some drawings and been thinking about them soo much they followed him into his sleep. 

Jon looked up into the sky, which at this time of night was filled to the brim with stars, a whole universe of light. Along with the stars, he saw the great red comet with its fiery tail trailing off towards the horizon. The free folk had only one interpretation of what this comet could mean: dragons. This belief was especially hard held because all too recently a similar comet had streaked through the sky to announce that dragons had been brought into the world by Daenerys. This could no longer be the case, could it? Daenerys was dead. He had done it with his own hands and she was the last of the dragonlords, besides himself he guessed, and while he was not certain he could be called a dragonlord, he was certain that he had not summoned the comet. 

Jon couldn't help it, and his mind wandered back to the dream. He remembered more details from his dreams as he stared into the flames. He had been there in King’s Landing caught between the opponents, the bird, and the dragon, between fire and ice, and was being forced to choose. It felt as though it were a dire decision that would have consequences either way and for some reason every time he remembered the choice being a difficult one as if no matter which one he chose he would be betraying someone. 

Jon sighed. He was tired of the politics, tired of the games and the backstabbing. He was where he belonged. The free folk did not kneel to kings or lords as they did in Westeros. They did not swear fealty to those that were somehow their betters but rather showed loyalty to those whom they cared most about. One was not expected to be something that they weren’t and it was through this simple life that the free folk were free. There were no kings among them nor were there any bastards, and it was due to this that Jon was allowed to live his life free of much of the judgment he had endured growing up in Westeros. On top of all of that, the intrigue regarding who he was or where he came from did not interest them. And that was the way he preferred it. As far as he cared to believe, Aegon Targaryen V had never existed. 

He looked away from the fire and over towards the sleeping form of the newest member of their exploration party: Tarlynn. She had been found by the party just a few days past; hiding out in one of the many destroyed villages that they had come across. Everyone else in the village had succumbed to the march of the dead, but Tarlynn had been out in the wilds hunting when the main part of the assault had taken place. Through a combination of her wits, fighting ability, and Jon was certain a fair bit of luck, she had managed to survive. After the attack on her home, she had decided that because it was apparent that the army was marching south the safest place she could be would be behind them, and she had been right. She had survived until they had found her all on her own. 

Jon liked Tarlynn, she was younger than him, but still by all means a woman grown, with mousy brown hair and a fair complexion. She was waif-thin with nimble hands and feet and wide and curious brown eyes that rarely missed a detail. Most likely wouldn’t have considered her a beauty, but to him, she had her charms. She was the only woman in the party currently, but that did not seem to bother her. She had a fiery and independent nature that reminded him strongly of Ygrette. Unusually for the free folk, she was highly proficient in the use of the sling, though she was useful with a bow. Tarlynn could hold her weight in the group and had been more than useful in her short amount of time she had been traveling with them. He smiled, maybe he could find life here among the free folk, maybe even with her. It made Jon happy to think of the possibilities; he could be a normal man, with a normal family, with a strong, beautiful woman. With these thoughts in his mind, Jon was finally able to lay back down in his bedroll and fall back to sleep. 


	15. Grey Worm

Grey worm looked out over the ocean towards the isle of Naath, it was beautiful this time of day as the sun was setting. As he looked at the island on the horizon he felt the same overwhelming sense of loss that he had felt since the day he had seen his love beheaded on the walls of Kings Landing. It had only gotten worse for grey worm after that, it was true that his queen had taken the city and had avenged Missandei’s death. But then in the aftermath of the victory she had been brutally murdered by the traitor Jon Snow. Even now Grey worm seethed at the fact that he had not killed Jon Snow there and then for what he had done, and had instead listened to the softer hearts of the Westerners who spared him. Even worse he knew that though Snow was supposed to be punished, having been sentenced to a life of serving on the wall, he knew that this was no punishment. The armies of the dead were defeated, and the wildlings were no longer the enemy so what was it that Jon was to do? What was the punishment? Was it to be cold? John was of the North in Westeros, the cold ran in his blood. 

Grey worm needed to put these thoughts that clouded his mind aside and focus on the task at hand for tonight. He was on duty to protect the island of Naath from the regular slaving raids that had plagued the island for so long. This was a duty that he and the unsullied under his command had taken upon themselves in the past few weeks to honor the memory of Missandei. 

It was true that initially, Grey Worm had intended to live on the island, to settle there, it was after all the wish of Missandei that they should go back to the place of her birth, but this had proven impossible. Naath was known as the “Isle of Butterflies” this much he had known, but it was not until they had been en route to the island and were dropping off the Dothraki at an Essos port, that he had learned the reason for why this was. The butterflies of the island, while beautiful were also dangerous, they carried a disease called “butterfly fever” that caused the flesh to fall from one's bones in a horrible and slow death. The people of Naath were immune, but anyone from outside would be dead within weeks if not days from the infection. 

Unfortunately, this disease had not stopped slavers from raiding the islands regularly, taking men women and children, just as they had done with Missandei. The slavers would come to the island in the night when the butterflies were not active, and as long as they left before dawn they would not succumb to the dreaded fever. The raiding of the island was so bad that it had almost destroyed the culture of Naath. The Naathi were entirely peaceful people, with pacifist beliefs and no experience with martial combat, this meant that they were unwilling and unable to defend themselves. All that was left of Naath now were small villages of people who lived in fear every night of their lives that this would be the night when men would come in the dark and take them away to never see their homes again. 

It was after learning the truth of the situation of Missandei’s home that Grey Worm had decided what to do. He and his men could not live on Naath, though they could live on a small rocky island just to the North. This island would normally be uninhabitable as it had very little native food sources outside of what they could catch from the sea, but trade with Naath and their plentiful harvests from the island had made it livable. He instead had taken it upon himself and his men to protect the island. Every night shifts of Unsullied traveled to the island and guarded the very few villages and people who were left. It had taken some time to gain the trust of the Naathi people, but after just a couple of weeks of his men going to the island without raiding, and the stopping of a particularly large slaving party, the villagers had begun to provide the men with food and drink, in a sign of their acceptance of the new guard. The tiny groups of people had even began to coalesce on the island, moving from their small, easily concealable groups, to larger, more complex ones. Just the last time Grey Worm had been on the island on guard he had begun to see the construction of a large village community house, something the people would have never done just a little while ago, as it made them too easy for slavers to find. 

As the ship pulled up to the shore he could already see that villagers were waiting for them with baskets in their arms. These were always filled with fruits, skins of freshwater and goods, sometimes items of clothing and bedding for the men to use. This system of exchange became stronger and stronger every day, with the villagers providing their unsullied protectors with all that they needed in return for their protection. It also helped that now more and more unsullied had begun to learn the language of the Naathi people, and communication had increased as well. 

Grey worm sighed as he waited on the ship for the sun to sink completely behind the horizon before setting foot onshore. He would never have his Missandei back, she was forever gone to the lands after death, but he knew that this would have pleased her, to know that he, even after the death of his queen he was making her dream for the world just a little more a reality. He was protecting a people so that they may be free from the will of masters so that there would never be another little girl like Missandei, taken away from her home and all those that loved her ever again. 

As the sun finally set Grey Worm saw a sight in the sky that he had seen only years before. A comet with a bright, fiery red tail coming over the horizon. This gave Grey Worm pause. What did it mean? The last time a comet such as that one had been seen in the sky his queen had become the mother of dragons. But his queen was now dead, did this comet mean the coming of dragons as it had before? Or did it mean something else, something more sinister. He shook this feeling off, no matter what it meant, if something came to harm the island of Naath, he and his men would be here to protect it. 


	16. Bhago

Bhago felt the flames engulf him, saw all three heads of the dragon douse him in their fire, felt the heat and even felt his skin blistering and bubbling as it sloughed away from his flesh, but he felt no pain. “Thank you, R’hllor. For giving your servent this one last reprieve. Thank you for saving me from the suffering that can come before death. Thank you for letting me fulfill my purpose.” But then as suddenly as the fire and heat had started it had stopped, and as the flames dissipated he saw Balerion standing before him, all three heads watching him intently and Daenerys at his torso, embracing the dragon tightly, sobbing.

“Daenerys?” Bhago whispered in disbelief. “Am I dead? Is this the realm of light?”

Daenerys’s head whipped around, at first her eyes did not seem to register what she was seeing, but then as her mind went to work her expression widened in awe. “No Bhago, I don’t believe you are.” She paused in thought for a moment. “Unless I have been dead this entire time and I am still in the night lands.”

Bhago considered this “No my lady, I do not believe that to be the case, but if you are still alive than that must mean that I am as well, but that raises so many more questions.”

Daenerys left Balerion's side and ran up to the old priest, wrapping him in her arms and embracing him tightly. “I’m so happy you are not gone. I don’t know what I would have done without you.” She let him go, still holding his hands in hers and looked him up in down, something dawning in her mind. “Bhago?”

“Yes, my lady?” He replied, feeling concerned about the tone of her voice.

“Look down at your arms” 

Bhago was surprised at her request but did as he was bade. His arms looked like arms, the old flesh the same darkly tanned shade they had always been his entire life. He was about to inform Daenerys of this fact until it dawned on him. His arms no longer appeared to be inflicted with greyscale! “My Lady!” he said, excitement building in his voice. “Your dragon, Balerion, I believe he may have healed me of my affliction!”

Daenerys could not help herself and laughed, “I believe you are right. Best to check to be sure, but maybe your Red God is good. Maybe he has granted his servant a second chance just as he has given to me and my children.”

It was Bhago's turn to laugh, “I have told you, my lady, my God is good and just, the God of life and light. Maybe I was wrong and maybe bringing you back was not my final purpose. Maybe there is more I am meant to do in this world before I pass on.”

Daenerys squeezed his hands, “And what, dear priest, do you now believe is your final purpose?”

“Well,” he stammered “I suppose it is to serve you and Balerion in any way that I can.” He knelt on one knee, and he marveled at how painless the action was now that his skin no longer cracked and bled at the slightest movement. “I am at your service and forever in your debt, my lady. I will be a humble and loyal servant to both yourself and Balerion.”

Daenerys laughed and held out a hand to help the man back up to his feet, “Do not be ridiculous Bhago. You are the one that first brought me back, you owe me no debt. I only wish for you to stay with me as an advisor and mentor. Please, that is all I desire.” A smile stretched across her face. 

“Whatever you say, my lady.”

“And you don’t have to call me ‘my lady’ every time you address, me, my friends call me Daenerys, And that is what you are, a friend.” She replied to him.

“Yes...Daenerys, I will keep that in mind.” He smiled in return, a gesture he was again truly able to do with his now wrinkled, but smooth skin.

“I do have a question for you, sir,” she asked as she studied his now fresh grey scale-free face, looking at him as though she had never seen him before. “Why do you keep calling my children Balerion? That was the name of Aegon’s dragon, and while I realize that it would be easy to get Drogon and Balerion the dread confused, they are not, in fact, the same.”

“My Lady...Daenerys” Bhago said slowly “You have realized that your dragon has returned to you with three heads upon its body? 

Daenerys did not answer right away, but rather looked from him back to the three-headed dragon behind them and back to him. “Well, of course, I’ve noticed, but that’s because R’hllor brought back my children that I had lost. That’s Viscerion,” she pointed at the cream and gold head to the left. “That’s Rhagal,” She pointed to the green and bronze dragon to the right. “And of course you have already met Drogon” she pointed to the black head in the center. “R’hllor brought Viscerion and Rhagal back, and here they are.”

“Uh-huh…” Bhago replied softly, nodding his head in agreement with her. “Daenerys?”

“Yes?”

“Are you familiar with the myths of old Valeryia?” 

“No, I suppose I’m not. My brother did not discuss it, because quite frankly I doubt he knew much. He mostly talked about the history of our family, and that history was based in Westeros.” She answered matter-of-factly. 

“Well,” Bhago began, “according to legend, Balerion was the king of dragons who was created by the lord of light to teach humanity and help bring the race of dragons into the world. It was said that the dragonlords were servants of Balerion.”

“That’s interesting,” Daenerys responded skeptically. “But what does that have to do with my dragons?”

Bhago broke into a smile again. It had been so long since he had taught a novice at the temple anything. Having someone respond before he made his point reminded him again of his time before his affliction, a time that had just begun again. He continued his impromptu lecture, “Balerion was a three-headed dragon. He is the figure on which the sigil of your house is based because the Targaryen fashioned themselves as the kings of the dragon lords after the doom befell Valyria and they were the last ones left.”


	17. Sam

“Samewll Tarley you have got it made! Imagine what your father, the old stoat, would say if he saw you now. Famous for killing a white walker as a man of the Night's Watch, and now one of the most important men of the kingdom.” Sam talked to himself as he rifled through the books of the old library of the Red Keep. He often spoke aloud to himself when alone like this. It helped to keep his mind clear and to let thoughts go rather than lingering on them in his head. This habit, he felt, kept him sharp and at his best. “It’s amazing, you know, that despite the Red Keep essentially burned down, the library is still here at all.” Sam laughed a bit at his comment. “I guess when Maegor Targaryen built this place he knew there was a possibility of a dragon attack.” It was true that the library had been spared due to its location. It was near the middle of the structure with its only windows facing neither the city nor the sea, thereby making it an unlikely target for an invading army, or a mad queen as the case had been. It was a good thing too, the library was one of the best he had ever seen, dwarfed in his experience only by the citadel in Olde Town. 

This reminded him of his father once more. He had been a terrible man, really and truly. He was the type of man who would threaten to kill his oldest son because of the way he was, and for nothing more. It was true that Sam had never been the type of man who excelled at the sword. He had never been tall, nor rugged, and certainly not handsome, but did that give his father the right to treat him that way? No. “He probably wouldn’t even be proud of me and what I’ve become.” he bitterly muttered under his breath. “Would probably just tell me that all Maesters were at their wet nurse's teat for too long just like I was. That they only became Maesters because they couldn’t make it in the real world as men.” Sam shook his head. “He’s wrong. He’s wrong and now he’s dead. Nobody deserves to be burned alive, but he did more than most.” Sam stopped speaking suddenly, he had heard a sound behind him somewhere in the library.

Ser Bronn, the Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Reach, and master of coin was standing behind him, looking on with his typical smugly amused expression. “Quite the heated conversation going on down here. Having a small council meeting all on your own, eh?” He drawled lazily, leaning against one of the many bookshelves. 

Despite months of staying at the castle Bronn still had the same rugged, feral look that he had had from the time that Sam had met him. From what Sam knew Bronn had originally worked for Lord Tyrion as an impromptu bodyguard. His life from before his run-in with Tyrion was still shrouded in mystery, but despite this, Bronn was now one of the most powerful and wealthy lords in the entirety of the six kingdoms. “How long were you standing there?” Sam stammered. 

“Long enough, and if you ask me, your father was a cunt, and you’re better off without him,” Bronn said, picking up a nearby book off the shelf to open and look at. “You find anything useful down here?” 

“Uh..um...yeah, lots. The old maesters and kings were very thorough in their record keeping. I’ve especially been looking for more information about winters past, see what we can expect for the upcoming few years.” Sam attempted to keep eye contact with Bronn as he spoke. The man still slightly frightened him and he had heard that the best way to prevent an attack from a predator was to maintain eye contact, and this man certainly did have the presence of a predator. 

Bronn did not seem to notice or care about Sam's expression, “Oh yeah? And what can we expect, as you say?”

“Well…” Sam continued. “Have you ever heard of something called ‘the shivers?’ It’s rare these days, but it makes people seem to die by the cold. They begin to shiver and feel cold, and eventually, they succumb. I’d never heard about it until now. Thought it might be something to keep an eye out for this winter with the amount of homelessness in the realm.”

“It’s not that rare, just something you would never have seen in your perfumed palace.” Bronn lazily responded. 

“What do you mean? Have you seen it-” Sam tried to ask, but he was cut off. 

Bronn slammed the book shut and turned to go. “Well let’s go, you chatty bastard; we’ve got an actual meeting to get to.”

“Oh..eh..yeah” Sam spluttered, he had no other choice but to follow the man, barely remembering to pick up the books he intended to quote at the small council meeting.

The two men walked together down the corridors and up the stairs of the Red Keep. Well, Bronn walked and Sam had to jog slightly to keep up with the taller man. Slightly wheezing and out of breath Sam attempted to find out more of what Bronn knew about the shivering sickness. “So...What do you know about the shivers?....Have you ever seen it before?”

“Sister died of it when I was young, during my first winter. A nasty way to go that, and she was just six years old at the time. Then it was just my brother and me.” Bronn appeared unaffected emotionally by the story, and this answer did nothing but add to the mystique surrounding the man. 

“So then, how do you think your sister caught it?” Sam asked, hoping this would yield useful information.

Bronn never slowed or even turned to look Sam's way “No idea, just the cold I guess. She wasn’t the only one, one of the neighbors caught it too, one of my dad's best drinking buddies. They both died that winter.”

“How did the symptoms begin?” Sam tried to wheedle more information from the man. 

Bronn stopped walking and turned to face Sam, clearly becoming annoyed by the line of questioning “Do I look like a fuckin’ maester to you? I was four years old at the time, all I know is that she started to shiver, then she died. There’s no cure, and when they start to shiver they may as well kiss their asses goodbye.”

Sam froze as the man spoke, almost afraid that Bronn might strike him, but he never did. “I’m...I’m sorry. I just wanted to know if you knew anything that might help us prevent an outbreak this winter.” 

Bronn turned and continued walking down the corridor, a bit faster this time. “Look for something in one of your precious books; I don’t know anything else about it.”

Aside from Sam's heavy breathing, the two men were silent the rest of the way to the small council chamber. When they reached their destination they found Tyrion and Bran to be sitting at the table waiting for them. “How good of you both to finally show up, we can get started,” Tyrion said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. 

“What do you mean?” Bronn answered, “The big woman isn’t here; don’t we need the captain of the king's guard?”

“Oh um.. She’s not feeling well; she will not be making it to today’s meeting” Sam interjected. He looked down at his books when Tyrion shot him a sidelong look.

Bronn sighed, “Whatever it is, I don’t want to know. Let’s just get this over with.” With that Bronn and Sam took their proper seats at the table. 

Tyrion cleared his throat, “So..” he started, leafing through a short stack of papers he had in front of him. “I have here the report on the repairs being done in Fleabottom at the moment. It’s not going as quickly as we had hoped, and the weather is just getting colder, so I think-"

“Tyrion,” the king finally spoke, interrupting the other man in mid-sentence. 

“Ah, yes my king?” Tyrion looked away from the paper he was reading from to make eye contact with the King.

“Have there been any reported sightings of the dragon?” Bran asked, a clear edge of annoyance in his voice. 

“Um…” Tyrion looked through his stack again. “No your Grace, as far as anyone can tell, he flew off to Essos and hasn’t been seen since.”

Sam noticed that the King had been nervously rubbing the thumb and forefinger of his left hand together since the meeting had started. “We need to know where he went, I have a bad feeling that we will regret it if we don’t find him, and exterminate him,” Bran replied, the edge of annoyance turning to full impatience.

“Kill him, your grace?” Sam asked, unable to help himself “I’m not sure the possible casualties would be worth it. And his mother is gone. I don’t think he will be back here any time soon, especially since no one has seen or heard from him in over six moons.”

“Have you not seen the sky!” Bran snapped at him, “Do you not know what that means?!”

Sam was taken aback. “Your Grace, that’s just a comet. I know what the common people say, but from what I’ve read it is simple a celestial body passing through the sky. It will leave us soon.”

“Hell of a ‘celestial body’ if you ask me,” Bronn said, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head. “Bloody thing looks like another sun streaking through the sky.”

“Can’t be a sun,” Sam replied, not able to stop himself from correcting someone. “It’s going the wrong way, this comet is moving from west to east.”

“It doesn’t matter what direction it’s moving; it’s not an omen your grace.” Tyrion stopped the conversation, turning to the king. “We have no reason to believe that the city is under any threat from Drogon, but we are taking the necessary precautions and adding scorpions to the new fleet. We will let you know immediately if there is any sighting or possible threat.” Tyrion straightened his papers, about to continue with the previous discussion before Bran spoke again. 

“What about the assessment of all those who died in the attack? Do we know what happened to the Cleganes?” Bran straightened in his chair as he spoke. 

Tyrion was somewhat confused by the question. “No Your Grace, they both appeared to have died in the attack. Why do you ask?”

Bran turned to look at Tyrion incredulously “The mountain was one of Cersei's staunchest allies, I wouldn’t want any nasty surprises. So if you think that he’s dead, has his body been recovered?”

“Um… well… no, it has just been assumed that he burned in the fires, just like many others did that day.” Tyrion stammered, growing more concerned with each strange question and outburst from the crippled king. 

“Great big mountain, just turned to ash and blew in the wind like a pile of leaves,” Bronn said with a smirk, to no one in particular. He seemed to find his own words more clever or amusing then everyone else in the room.

This appeared to upset the king, who immediately turned his chair away from the table and began making his way out of the room. “This meeting is over; I need time and privacy to meditate in my quarters.” With that, Bran had turned the corner and left, leaving the rest of the small council to sit in awkward silence.


End file.
